UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


OPEN  THE  DOOR 

A   NOVEL 


BY 

CATHERINE   CARSWELL 


NEW  YORK 
HARCOURT,  BRACE   AND   HOWE 

IQ20 


COPYRIGHT,    IQ2O,   BY 
HARCOURT,    BRACE   AND   HOWE,   INC. 


THE  OUINN  «   BODEN  COMPANY 
RAHWkV.    !V.    J. 


I? 

(COOS' 
OPEN  THE  DOOR 

BOOK  I 

'.    .    .   Open  the  door,  and  flee." — 2  Kings  ix.  3. 
CHAPTER    I 


FOR  Juley  Bannerman  to  leave  home  was  in  any  case 
a  heavy  undertaking.  Even  without  her  four  children, 
even  with  the  admonishing  help  of  her  husband,  the  occasion 
was  one  for  which  complicated  plans — gallant  but  not  availing 
— had  to  be  laid  weeks  beforehand.  And  on  this  morning 
neither  alleviation  was  hers. 

As  always  she  had  done  her  best,  of  course.  The  night 
before  she  had  not  undressed,  had  not  so  much  as  taken  the 
hairpins  from  her  aching  head.  Then  since  breakfast  her 
two  daughters,  aged  twelve  and  fifteen,  had  rushed  about  the 
house,  strapping  and  unstrapping  luggage,  and  exhorting  her. 
Her  confused  servants  had  done  what  they  could.  Even  her 
little  sons  had  tried  to  help,  and  as  the  four-wheeled  cab 
went  lumbering  over  the  granite  setts  of  the  city,  they  strove 
^  unskilfully  to  knot  up  her  bonnet  strings  between  them. 

But  it  was  all  no  use.    The  morning  express  from  Glasgow 
to   Edinburgh,   said   the  porter,   had  been  gone   these   two 

t  minutes.     Now  there  was  no  train  until  ten  minutes  past 
twelve. 

Smarting,  not  for  the  first  time,  under  this  kind  of  public 

ignominy,  the  children  precipitated  themselves  upon  the  pave- 

Q  ment  before  Queen  Street  Station,  and  Georgie,  the  eldest, 

*  a  stout  and  lively  girl,  addressed  herself  with  violence  to 

N  the  open  door  of  the  cab. 

"  It's  always  the  same  when  Father  isn't  here,"  she  stormed. 
z  "  I  told  you  we'd  miss  it,  didn't  I?  "    In  her  rage  she  could 
have  struck  her  mother. 

It  exasperated  the  children  that   the  culprit  still  stayed 


Ctr 

UJ 

o 


4  OPEN   THE    DOOR 

sitting  in  the  cab,  untying  and  retying  the  black  ribbon 
strings  of  her  bonnet  with  a  little  defiance  in  her  face;  and 
they  knew  she  was  avoiding  their  eyes  when  she  leaned  for- 
ward smiling  at  the  porter,  seeking  his  sympathy,  speaking 
in  her  warm  pleasant  voice. 

"  Oh!  But  I  feel  sure  there  must  be  a  train  before  then," 
she  urged,  as  if  by  sheer  hopefulness  she  could  belie  the  time- 
tables. "  Let  me  see  the  board."  And  she  began  a  cumbered 
descent  from  the  cab. 

For  a  woman  of  but  forty-two,  even  allowing  for  the  fact  that 
at  this  time  she  was  some  months  gone  with  child,  Juley 
moved  heavily.  Not  even  the  loss  of  a  night's  rest  could  rob 
her  face  of  its  girlish  freshness,  but  this  very  youthfulness  and 
ardour  of  exp/ession  served  to  emphasize  her  physical  inepti- 
tude. It  was  as  if  she  had  never  grown  used  to  her  body. 
Often  enough  had  her  children  heard  her  sigh  impatiently  for 
wings. 

Yet  Joanna,  her  younger  daughter,  looking  on,  could  not 
believe  that  swiftness  and  grace  were  not  mere  matters  of 
goodwill,  and  that  therefore  this  clumsiness  was  deliberate. 

"  Why  will  mother  move  like  that?  "  she  questioned  in 
childish  vexation.  And  driven  by  a  strong  craving,  she 
stared  away  from  the  imperfection  facing  her,  and  set  her  eyes 
instead  on  a  patch  of  the  blue,  perfect  sky  of  May  which  had 
shone  out  suddenly  between  showers  above  the  house-tops. 

"  The  man  must  know  about  the  trains,  Mother,"  Georgie 
scolded,  and  turning  to  the  porter  she  asked  him  when  the 
twelve  o'clock  train  reached  Edinburgh. 

"  But  Aunt  Georgina's  lunch  is  at  one!  "  declared  the 
elder  boy,  Linnet,  when  he  had  heard  the  reply;  and  spinning 
on  his  heel  he  seemed  to  find  a  zest  in  adding  to  the  family 
misfortunes.  "  Aunt  Georgina  will  be  cross !  And  what 
about  the  carriage?  It'll  be  waiting  at  the  station  for  us." 

At  this  a  disconsolate  exclamation  came  from  Sholto,  the 
youngest.  Sholto  did  so  love  to  sit  by  Mackintosh,  his  Aunt's 
coachman  whose  fur  cape  smelt  of  naptha,  as  they  drove 
along  Princes  Street. 

Georgie  glared  murderously  at  her  mother. 

"  It's  all  because  Father  isn't  here,"  she  repeated. 

But  the  time-table  had  showed  a  train  that  would  leave 
the  Central  Station  in  half-an-hour.  So  the  luggage  was  put 
back  on  the  railed  top  of  the  cab,  and  the  children  crowded 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  5 

into  it  for  the  five  minutes  drive.  Their  last  difficulty  lay 
in  getting  their  mother  to  break  off  a  conversation  with  the 
porter.  She  had  discovered  that  as  a  lad  he  had  attended  her 
husband's  Bible  Class  for  Foundry  Boys:  and  now  she  was 
telling  him  about  the  Evangelistic  tour  Mr.  Bannerman  was 
making  in  the  United  States  of  America.  She  had  to  be 
pushed  and  pulled,  protesting  into  the  cab.  Then  some  one 
remembered  that  a  telegram  must  be  sent  to  Aunt  Georgina. 
But  at  last  they  v/ere  set  out  on  their  way  again,  and  they 
were  soon  arranging  themselves  in  the  train. 

ii 

Though  the  third-class  compartment  which  the  Bannerman 
family  had  secured  to  themselves  would  have  seated  ten 
full-grown  people  with  comfort,  it  now  appeared  so  to  over- 
flow with  animated  life  that  other  travellers,  valise  in  hand, 
passed  it  after  one  hesitating  glance  through  its  windows. 
Certainly  the  children  from  the  moment  of  their  entrance 
did  everything  they  could  think  of  to  repel  fellow-passengers. 
Not  only  was  this  by  tradition  essential  to  the  joy  of  a  jour- 
ney, but  if  strangers  got  in,  Mrs.  Bannerman  was  sure  to 
talk  to  them.  She  loved  and  idealized  strangers,  eagerly 
furnished  them  with  reading  matter,  and  was  swift  in  leading 
the  talk  to  eternal  verities — all  of  which  was  a  severe  trial 
to  her  daughters  in  their  sensitive  teens.  In  most  ways  lead- 
ing quite  detached  lives,  and  feeling  a  good  deal  of  contempt 
each  for  the  other,  Georgie  and  Joanna  were  at  one  in  this: 
they  hated  any  publication  of  their  mother's  peculiarities. 

And  so  young  Sholto  was  posted  at  one  of  the  platform 
windows  and  told  to  grimace  with  all  his  might  at  anyone 
who  seemed  to  have  designs  on  the  door-handle,  while  behind 
him,  Linnet,  disguised  as  an  invalid,  lay  at  full,  length, 
propped  slightly  by  a  hold-all  and  covered  to  the  chin  with 
his  mother's  shepherd-plaid  shawl.  In  another  window,  an 
umbrella,  crowned  with  Sholto's  glengarry  and  draped  with 
Linnet's  reefer  coat,  served  as  an  additional  scarecrow. 

In  all  this  the  leader  was  clearly  Georgie.  She  gave  her 
orders  in  Double  Dutch,  a  secret  family  language  much  used 
and  treasured  by  the  four,  and  the  younger  ones  did  her  bid- 
ding more  or  less.  To  the  mother's  fitful  supplication  for 
quiet,  no  one  paid  much  attention.  But  really  Juley  was  as 
youthfully  elated  as  any  of  her  children  at  the  adventure 


6  OPEN   THE    DOOR 

of  travelling,  and  they  knew  it.  Her  satisfaction,  together 
with  great  pride  in  her  unmanagec  ')le  flock,  beamed  from  her. 
She  enjoyed,  too,  arranging  the  hand-luggage  on  the  racks 
and  beneath  the  seats,  and  was  joyfully  looking  forward  to 
opening  the  letters  of  that  morning,  one  letter  bearing  the 
Philadelphia  postmark.  She  had  a  day-old  newspaper  to 
read  as  well,  and  had  brought  with  it  several  issues  of  The 
Believer  and  of  Distant  Lands — some  of  these  still  in  their 
uncut  wrappers  of  weeks  ago  and  showing  marks  of  dust. 
In  the  current  number  of  The  Believer  she  knew  there  was  a 
breezily  up-to-date  article  by  her  husband,  entitled  "  Are 
Miracles  Essential?  "  To  read  with  a  clear  conscience  was  a 
luxury  Juley  never  enjoyed  at  home,  where  calls  on  her  time 
and  strength  were  unending,  and  household  duties,  in  spite 
of  her  three  servants,  ever  in  arrears.  Already  on  this  journey 
she  had  expressed  some  of  her  pleasant  anticipations  to  the 
kind  guard  who  sympathized  with  their  loss  of  the  other 
train.  Next,  to  her  daughters'  distress  she  confided  in  the 
ticket-collector.  "  We  are  going,"  she  told  him,  "  to  the 
Assembly  of  our  dear  Free  Church." 

"  I  do  wish,  Mother,  you  wouldn't  tell  every  one  where  we 
are  going,"  objected  Georgie  the  moment  the  door  was  closed 
again.  "  People  only  laugh  at  us.  The  man  was  laughing. 
I  saw  him.  What's  the  use  of  telling  him  that  Grandpapa 
came  out  at  the  Disruption?  He's  probably  a  U.  p.  any- 
how." 

"  Dear,  dear,  how  sensitive  you  children  are,"  replied  Juley 
undisturbed.  She  was  annoyingly  accustomed  to  such  rebukes, 
and  feeling  suddenly  hungry  she  opened  a  small  paper  bag 
and  began  to  eat  from  it  with  relish.  She  had  thriftily  saved 
half  a  buttered  roll  from  their  hasty  breakfast. 

"  What  if  he  did  smile,  Georgie?  "  she  went  on  between 
bites.  "  It  will  do  him  good  to  smile,  and  us  no  harm." 

Georgie  blew  an  irritated  breath,  and  settling  herself  with  a 
wriggle  in  the  corner  where  the  umbrella  had  been,  she 
resolutely  opened  the  book  she  had  brought  with  her.  It 
was  Sartor  Resartus.  She  did  not  understand  it,  but  it  ex- 
hilarated her  with  a  sense  of  superiority  to  the  rest  of  the 
family.  She  glanced  scornfully  across  at  her  sister  who  was 
reading  Tit-Bits,  indulging  an  inferior  appetite  for  mere  bits 
of  curious  information. 

The  train  had  moved  out  of  the  station,  but  just  then  it 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  7 

slowed  down  and  stopped  on  the  high  bridge  which  there 
spans  the  Clyde.  Joanna,  from  learning  how  many  times  a 
sovereign  beat  finely  out  would  engirdle  the  earth,  looked  up 
and  out  of  the  window.  Below  her,  framed  in  the  great 
transverse  shanks  of  the  iron  grille,  the  water  looked  so  beauti- 
ful that  she  could  have  called  out.  Yet  something  kept  her 
quite  still  and  mute  in  her  corner. 

It  had  been  raining  half  an  hour  before,  and  now  the  sun 
gleamed  on  the  brown  surface  of  the  river  and  on  the  wet, 
gray  granite  balustrades  of  the  Jamaica  Bridge.  The  bright 
red  and  yellow  horse-cars  flashed  as  they  followed  each  other 
northwards  and  southwards  along  shining  rails,  and  the  pass- 
ing craft  on  the  water  moved  in  a  dun-colored  glory.  By 
one  bank  some  paddle  steamers  were  being  re-painted  for 
the  coming  season.  Joanna  with  the  others  had  often  sailed 
in  them  for  summer  cruises,  and  she  knew  by  the  number  of 
funnels  and  their  colors  to  which  line  each  boat  belonged. 
She  knew  the  dredgers  too,  obstinate  in  mid-stream,  with 
their  travelling  lines  of  buckets  trawling  glittering  filth  from 
the  river-bed,  while  passing  them,  a  string  of  half-submerged 
barges  and  rafts  hung  behind  a  little  panting  tug.  Less 
familiar  was  a  giant  liner  that  made  her  slow  way  seaward. 
Her  decks  were  deserted.  Only  a  negro  leaned,  gazing,  upon  a 
rail  astern. 

This  picture,  cut  into  sections  and  made  brilliant  by  the 
interposing  trellis  of  black  metal,  appealed  not  so  much  to 
the  little  girl's  untrained  eye,  as  symbolically  through  her 
eye  to  her  heart  which  leapt  in  response.  The  sunshine  on 
that  outgoing  vessel  and  the  great,  glistening  current  of  brown 
water  filled  her  with  painful  yet  exquisite  longings.  She  did 
not  know  what  ailed  her,  nor  what  she  desired.  She  got  no 
further  than  thinking  that  she  would  like  to  be  a  stewardess 
when  she  grew  up. 

With  a  warning  cry  and  a  long  shudder  the  train,  which  had 
only  stopped  for  a  moment,  started  again.  But  before  it  had 
passed  over  the  bridge,  Georgie  too,  glancing  up  from  her 
reading  at  the  disturbance,  caught  sight  of  the  river. 

"Oh,  look!  Just  look!  Look  at  the  river,  all  of  you!  " 
she  shouted,  rushing  across  the  carriage.  "  Mother!  Joanna! 
Isn't  it  simply  lovely?  Isn't  it  exquisite?  "  And  in  her 
enthusiasm  she  dragged  her  mother  to  the  window  at  which 
her  sister  was  seated.  "  Only  look  there!  " 


8  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

Juley  leaned  to  look  back  at  the  retreating  vision.  She 
had  laid  her  hand  on  Joanna's  shoulder,  partly  to  steady  her- 
self, partly  in  affection. 

"Yes,  dears,  beautiful!  "  she  agreed  with  warmth.  "God 
has  put  us  into  a  beautiful  world.  Let  us  try  and  make  our 
own  lives  to  match  it!  "  And  after  a  pause  she  quoted  words 
which  had  risen  in  her  mind  at  the  sight :  "  They  go  down  to 
the  sea  in  ships,  and  see  His  wonders  in  the  mighty  deep." 

Joanna  felt  miserably  inclined  to  shake  off  her  mother's 
touch  which  had  increased  to  a  meaning  pressure  on  her 
shoulder.  It  seemed  to  violate  her,  and  she  guessed  with 
hatred  at  the  pleased,  ready  tears  in  her  mother's  eyes.  Even 
while  her  own  tears  pricked  painfully  behind  her  eye-balls 
at  the  beauty  of  her  mother's  words,  she  threw  up  frantic 
defences  against  their  bid  for  her  sympathy.  Not  for  the 
world  would  she  have  yielded,  not  for  the  world  could  she  have 
told  why.  The  familiar,  absurd  thought  came  to  her  that 
she  was  perhaps  a  changeling  or  foster-child  in  the  Bannerman 
family,  no  real  relation  to  any  of  them.  How  else  explain  this 
trouble,  this  obstinate  aloofness  that  was  so  common  with  her? 

As  for  Juley  she  sat  in  her  place  and  reviewed  her  little 
family,  her  "  hens  of  gold  "  as  she  loved  to  call  them.  God, 
in  His  infinite  mercy,  she  mused,  had  seen  fit  to  give  her  the 
charge  of  these  four  immortal  souls;  and  she  would,  with  His 
help,  try  not  to  fail  in  so  great  a  trust.  In  the  scurry  that 
morning  she  had  not  found  time  to  kneel  as  long  as  usual  by 
her  bedside.  Without  constant  and  secret  prayer  she  knew 
herself  unable  to  face  the  difficulties  of  daily  life.  So  now  she 
closed  her  eyes  and  prayed.  She  prayed  for  each  of  her 
children,  including  the  one  yet  unborn:  for  strength  and 
wisdom  to  guide  their  feet  in  the  way  of  peace:  for  her  husband 
in  Philadelphia,  and  the  work  he  was  doing  among  souls 
there  between  the  intervals  of  his  business.  Lastly  she 
prayed  for  the  whole  family  of  mankind.  But  prayers  em- 
bracing the  human  race  are  so  generous  that  upon  the  soul 
that  offers  them  they  have  the  soothing  and  releasing  effect 
of  a  wide  landscape  or  a  river  which  has  quietly  overflowed 
its  banks.  And  this  is  what  happened  to  Juley  Bannerman. 
A  sense  of  extraordinary  peace  lapped  her  about.  The  white 
Believers  and  the  blue  Distant  Lands  she  had  thought  to 
enjoy,  were  destined  to  travel  back  to  Glasgow  a  week  later 
in  their  unviolated  wrappers.  She  slept. 


Ill 

The  train  ran  on  with  a  throbbing  rhythm  that  was  grate- 
ful to  the  sleeping  woman.  Linnet  sat  in  a  lethargy  as  usual, 
twitching  his  pale  blue,  delicate  eyes  in  a  way  he  had;  and 
Sholto  who  wanted  to  fire  off  a  new  penny  pistol,  searched  his 
sporran  for  pink  percussion  caps.  With  his  glengarry  off 
the  child  showed  a  bullet-like  head  covered  with  short,  dark 
fur,  a  head  that  looked  as  if  it  could  ram  enemies  out  of  its 
way.  And  the  strong  knees  beneath  his  tweed  kilt  were 
always  covered  with  bruises  which  were  his  pride  when  the 
first  pain  of  them  was  past.  Already  he  was  more  than  a 
match  for  Linnet,  and  his  sisters  had  been  compelled  to  aban- 
don physical  reliance  in  their  dealings  with  him.  When  he 
was  whipped  he  bellowed,  but  shed  few  tears,  unlike  Linnet, 
who  overflowed  at  a  touch.  Indeed  it  was  enough  to  address 
Linnet  teasingly  as  "  President  Lincoln  "  (his  namesake)  to  see 
the  corners  of  his  mouth  go  down.  Though  he  was  now  ten, 
his  mother  had  not  yet  had  the  heart  to  cut  the  fair  effemi- 
nate ringlets  which  reached  the  collar  of  his  sailor  suit. 
The  others,  all  straight-haired,  were  proud  of  Linnet's 
curls. 

Georgie  and  Joanna  seemed  deep  in  their  reading.  Joanna, 
seeing  her  mother  asleep,  had  kicked  off  her  shoes  without 
untying  the  laces:  her  brown  beaver  hat  lay  beside  her.  Both 
girls  were  dressed  alike  in  porridge-colored  coats  trimmed 
after  the  fashion  of  the  nineties,  with  panels  of  terra-cotta 
plush.  Ugly  garments  they  were,  but  they  had  a  special 
quality  in  their  wearer's  eyes  because  Aunt  Perdy  from  Italy 
had  chosen  them.  About  a  month  before  Aunt  Perdy,  Juley's 
sister,  till  then  known  to  the  children  by  name  only, 
as  "  poor  Aunt  Perdy,"  who  led  a  vaguely  romantic,  vaguely 
unmentionable  existence  on  an  Italian  hill-top,  had  seized 
the  chance  of  her  disapproving  brother-in-law's  absence  to 
pay  them  all  a  visit  in  Glasgow.  During  her  short  stay  she 
had  turned  the  Bannerman  household  upside-down.  It  was 
a  household  where  personal  remarks  were  not  made,  but  Aunt 
Perdy's  talk  had  consisted  chiefly  in  personalities.  She  had 
turned  from  her  soup  at  dinner  to  tell  the  housemaid  that  her 
hair  was  glorious,  but  her  face  stupid:  had  assured  Georgie 
that  her  neck  and  hands  were  her  only  good  points  in  looks: 
had  drawn  up  impromptu  horoscopes  unasked  for  each 


io  OPENTHEDOOR 

member  of  the  family  from  Juley  to  the  cook.  It  was  on  the 
occasion  of  the  choosing  of  the  porridge-colored  coats  that 
she  had  announced  with  all  the  gravity  and  force  of  prophecy 
that  Joanna  promised  to  be  a  beauty  in  the  course  of  time. 
It  was  a  prophecy  rebuked  by  Juley,  but  both  Joanna  and 
Georgie  had  heard  it;  and  since  that  day  the  relations  be- 
tween the  two  girls  had  changed  subtly.  Till  then  the  elder 
had  been  a  secret  bully.  When  they  were  dressing  together 
she  would  often  throw  Joanna's  clothes  on  to  the  dusty 
top  of  the  wardrobe,  and  she  had  enjoyed  watching  her 
suffer.  But  even  then  she  had  sometimes  felt  a  curious 
spasm  in  herself  seeing  her  youngest  sister  asleep  in  the  bed 
they  shared.  Joanna's  skin  made  her  think  of  wild  roses, 
and  there  was  a  suggestion  of  fragility  in  these  undecided 
contours  that  roused  something  besides  her  contempt.  Not 
so  very  long  before,  at  a  Christmas  party  at  Aunt  Georgina's, 
when  her  mother  had  arrived  very  late,  bringing  her  whole 
flock — though  only  two  had  been  expected — Cousin  Irene, 
newly  returned  from  "  finishing  "  in  France,  had  swept  the 
apologetic  little  Glasgow  group  with  her  tortoiseshell  lorgnette 
(Irene  was  terribly  fashionable). 

"What  stu-u-r-dy  children!  "  she  had  drawled. 

Juley,  proud  of  the  robust  bodies  she  had  brought  forth 
and  reared,  had  smiled  delighted  at  the  compliment.  But 
Georgie  had  been  lashed  by  her  cousin's  patronage.  She  had 
stood  out  crimsoning  and  looking  in  that  moment  sturdier 
than  ever. 

"  That  shows  all  you  know!  "  she  had  exclaimed.  "  Lin- 
net's extremely  delicate — he  has  to  wear  a  truss.  And  Joanna 
is  not  a  bit  sturdy.  She  has  to  have  Malt  Extrack  with 
every  meal,  and  it  was  all  mother  could  do  to  rear  her  at 
all!" 

What  Georgie  had  not  realized  before  her  Aunt  Perdy's 
visit  was  that  Joanna's  look  of  fragility  held  a  promise  of 
future  beauty.  Now  without  question  she  knew  and  accepted 
it.  She  felt  not  a  trace  of  envy.  The  contempt  did  not  go, 
but  the  bullying  ceased. 

Juley  still  slept.  She  had  in  full  measure  the  capacity  for 
making  up  arrears  of  sleep;  and  it  was  well  that  she  had, 
for  failing  to  get  to  bed  in  the  ordinary  way  and  at  a  reason- 
able hour  of  the  night  was  one  of  the  sins  that  did  most  easily 
beset  her.  She  acknowledged  it,  fought  and  prayed  against 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  n 

it,  but  with  little  avail.    And  her  children  were  as  ashamed 
of  it  as  if  she  had  been  a  drunkard. 

To  herself  Juley's  weakness  was  a  baffling  mystery.  Night 
after  night,  soon  after  ten  o'clock  had  struck,  however  strong 
her  resolve  of  the  earlier  evening  had  been,  she  was  beset  by 
a  vision  of  duties  undone.  There  were  letters  that  should 
have  been  answered  weeks  ago,  the  accounts  needed  making 
up,  cheques  ought  to  be  signed.  Throughout  the  day  inter- 
ruptions, to  which  she  was  ever  a  victim,  had  prevented  her 
from  attending  to  these  things;  and  now,  between  ten  and 
eleven,  they  collected  to  form  a  dark  cloud  about  her.  Scratch, 
scratch,  would  go  her  unready  pen;  and  she  took  great  pains 
with  her  erasures,  always  having  a  fine  pen-knife  by  her  in 
her  japanned  pencil  case,  and  finally  rubbing  the  place  quite 
smooth  with  the  back  of  her  finger-nail.  When  her  husband 
was  at  home  he  had  the  authority  to  drive  her  to  bed,  but 
now  that  he  was  away  the  girls  would  wake  with  an  unhappy 
start  hearing  the  clock  strike  two,  and  would  steal  in  to  re- 
monstrate. Never  in  after  life  could  they  hear  the  sound  of 
a  quill  pen  squeaking  along  paper  without  a  vision  of  their 
mother  by  candlelight,  her  face  wearing  a  look  of  innocent 
craft,  mingled  with  guilt  at  being  found  out.  True,  even  then 
she  usually  maintained  the  defensive.  So  long  as  she  was  at 
her  chaotic  desk  she  was  upheld  by  the  sense  that  she  was 
fulfilling  duties,  however  belatedly.  But  there  were  times 
when  in  the  delicious  quiet  of  midnight  she  would  be  ensnared 
by  the  unread  newspaper  of  that  morning;  and  this,  whether 
discovered  in  it  or  not,  she  held  to  be  sinful.  At  other  times 
again,  on  some  slight  pretext,  such  as  a  fresh  box  of  matches, 
she  would  with  many  precautions  creep  down  the  basement 
stairs  and  prowl  about  the  kitchen,  peeping  into  jars,  sniffling 
inquisitively  at  their  contents,  testing  Ellen's  saucepans  with 
a  forefinger  to  see  if  they  were  thoroughly  scoured — finding 
a  dozen  things  amiss.  Ultimately,  the  housewife  in  her  ram- 
pant, she  would  spend  three-quarters  of  an  hour  cutting  up 
bars  of  soap  into  even  squares  for.  the  economy  of  drying 
before  use;  and  when  she  came  to  place  them  neatly  in  rows 
on  a  high  shelf,  she  would  find  that  the  shelf  wanted  dusting. 
On  these  occasions  she  reverted  entirely  to  the  careful,  secre- 
tive, peasant  stock  from  which  her  family  had  sprung  on  her 
father's  side — a  strong  stock  that  had  risen  and  married  far 
above  itself.  In  spite  of  a  pricking  conscience,  Juley  enjoyed 


12  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

her  stolen  visits  to  the  kitchen  like  a  truant  schoolgirl,  and 
during  such  raids  her  mouth  would  be  set  in  lines  of  obstinate 
naughtiness. 

When  her  husband  was  at  home,  however,  there  were  but 
few  adventures  below-stairs  for  her.  Her  unpunctuality,  her 
muddle-headedness  and  her  slowness  were  very  trying  to  a 
facile  and  naturally  precise  man  as  he  was,  and  she  was 
achingly  aware  of  her  own  shortcomings.  Not  that  Sholto 
treated  her  harshly.  He  was  forbearance  itself,  and  she  knew 
he  recognized  her  constant  struggle  to  please  him.  Greatly 
she  craved  his  affection,  and  he  gave  it  to  her.  But  not  like 
a  spendthrift.  He  doled  it  out,  while  she  devoured  it  hungrily. 
She  was  conscious  without  vanity  that  he  had  a  fixed  percep- 
tion of  her  goodness,  her  inherent  purity  of  heart  and  motive, 
and  that  he  consciously  kept  this  in  mind  when  she  tried  his 
patience.  And  for  this  she  was  humbly  grateful,  often  telling 
herself  how  blessed  she  was  in  such  a  husband.  But  without 
knowing  it  she  thirsted  for  something  Sholto  did  not  give  her, 
as  he  had  it  not,  and  when  this  thirst  attacked  her  she  suffered 
a  sick  loneliness  of  heart  that  drove  her  to  her  knees.  There 
by  her  bedside,  many  a  time,  with  tears  she  would  ask  for- 
giveness of  God  for  having  married. 

For  when  she  was  twenty-five  there  had  come  very  defin- 
itely to  Juley  Erskine,  as  she  then  was,  the  call  to  a  religious 
vocation.  Had  she  been  a  Roman  Catholic  she  would  un- 
doubtedly have  entered  some  working  Order  such  as  that 
church  provides,  and  under  its  strict  rule  and  constant  spiritual 
exercises  might  have  thriven.  But  to  her  the  Church  of  Rome 
was  the  Scarlet  Woman.  So  her  call  demanded  simply  that 
special  kind  of  consecration,  which,  so  long  as  there  are  Leper 
Islands  abroad  and  slums  at  home,  will  always  remain  open 
to  ardent  souls  of  any  denomination.  Juley  had  taken  her 
decision,  but  not  yet  a  definite  post  for  service,  when  she  met 
Sholto  Bannerman.  And  very  soon  after  their  meeting  he 
asked  her  to  become  his  wife. 

Sholto  with  his  immediate  charm  had  become  accustomed 
to  women's  admiration,  and  up  to  a  point  he  was  susceptible; 
but  no  woman  had  ever  appealed  to  him  so  strongly  as  this 
one.  Miss  Erskine  was  not  pretty,  but  her  physical  freshness, 
notable  in  itself,  was  made  arresting  by  some  spiritual  quality 
in  her  which  Sholto  did  not  attempt  to  define.  And  she  was 
just  difficult  enough  to  make  the  winning  of  her  a  pleasure. 


OPENTHEDOOR  13 

She  would  have  refused  anyone  else  ;  but  Sholto's  chance  lay  in 
the  fact  that  they  had  met  in  mission  work,  and  in  a  particular 
Vineyard  where  he  was  already  an  experienced  laborer. 

In  1 88 1  there  had  swept  over  Scotland  a  wave  of  religious 
revival — the  second  and  lesser  wave  set  a-going  by  Moody 
and  Sankey — and  in  Glasgow  alone  the  registered  converts 
numbered  over  thirty-two  thousand.  There  were  stupendous 
after-meetings  which  made  the  City  Hall  resemble  a  vast 
fishing  ground,  with  the  blind,  sweet-voiced  singer  and  the 
nasal,  humorous  Yankee  orator  as  the  skilful  casters  of  nets. 
Both  Sholto  and  Juley  had  readily  lent  themselves  as  helpers 
and  it  was  thus  that  they  had  met. 

Juley  had  hesitated  long  dnd  seriously,  but  in  the  end  she 
had  taken  Sholto  instead  of  her  dream  of  holiness.  He  was 
so  handsome,  so  masterful,  yet  so  gracious — so  full  of  sun- 
shine, and  apparently  so  warm.  He  was  so  sure  too  that  as 
his  wife  she  would  be  fulfilling  her  true  destiny.  Every 
argument  was  on  his  side.  The  idea  of  a  home  of  her  own 
had  always  worked  strongly  in  Juley.  She  loved  children, 
and  seemed  made  to  care  for  them.  So  she  recanted.  But 
she  never  forgot  her  dream.  And  when  her  babes  came,  she 
told  herself  that  surely  the  beings  born  of  such  a  marriage 
would  give  themselves  in  due  time  to  the  Work  from  which 
their  mother  had  turned  back.  Nay,  they  would  do  it  far 
better  than  she,  with  her  many  drawbacks  of  temperament, 
could  ever  have  done.  So  one  by  one  she  dedicated  them, 
and  prayed  for  them,  and  was  content  to  be  obliterated  from 
the  Book  of  Life  itself,  if  only  her  prayers  might  be  an- 
swered. 

With  her  husband  she  had  a  measure  of  happiness.  To 
the  end  she  idealized  him;  to  the  end  hid  her  hunger  under 
self-censure.  In  the  intimate  chamber  of  their  married  life 
she  was  never  really  awakened.  Sholto  in  the  early  days  used 
to  tell  her  laughing  that  she  compared  favorably  with  other 
women  in  her  wifely  demands,  which  he  declared  were  for  an 
almost  fraternal  affection.  She  believed  this,  and  was  flat- 
tered by  it  as  he  had  intended  she  should  be — impressed  too 
by  his  air  of  worldly  knowledge.  But  it  was  not  the  truth. 
She  wanted  utter  union  with  him,  and  as  she  could  unite  with 
no  one,  she  remained  wrapt  within  herself.  When  she  felt 
the  stirrings  of  passion  in  herself  she  was  dimly  ashamed,  and 
had  to  reason  that  after  all  this  world  was  peopled  by  God's 


i4  OPENTHEDOOR 

own  ordinances.  Only  the  yielding  up  of  oneself  to  mere  delight 
was  sinful. 

As  for  Sholto,  he  too  was  faintly  ashamed  of  his  sensual 
self,  but  it  was  not  so  strong  that  he  could  not  keep  it  fairly 
easily  in  hand.  The  baffling  truth  about  him — known  to 
no  one,  least  of  all  to  himself — was  that  at  the  very  heart  of 
him  there  was  an  emptiness.  He  was  a  fine,  gracious  figure 
of  a  man.  But  at  the  center  of  his  being  there  was  a  falling 
away.  This — though  he  gave  other  reasons,  and  believed 
them — was  why  he  shunned  intimacies.  Sometimes  when  life 
pressed  hard  on  him,  a  look  of  vague  fear  would  cross  his  face. 
But  it  always  passed  quickly,  and  the  guarded,  sunlit  empti- 
ness returned.  He  subscribed  to  the  Evangelical  system, 
not  passionately  like  his  wife,  but  because  it  saved  him  from 
thought.  He  had  the  faith  of  a  little  child;  he  had  also  the 
spasmodic  terror  of  a  little  child  that  its  faith  may  be  mis- 
placed. Indeed  he  was  in  twenty  ways  a  child.  He  liked  all 
games  and  played  them  well  without  taking  special  pains — 
he  liked  laughter  too,  and  could  never  resist  a  pun.  Being 
with  his  children  gave  him  pleasure,  and  he  took  them  out 
for  long  walks  on  Saturday  afternoon,  when  they  had  much 
ado  to  keep  up  with  his  strong,  springing  steps.  To  them  it 
seemed  that  the  earth  shook  a  little  under  his  tread,  and  they 
looked  up  to  him  as  to  a  god.  To  women  it  was  his  habit 
to  speak  banteringly;  and  they  liked  it,  smiling  on  after  he 
was  gone. 

But  what  Sholto  loved  best  of  all  was  public  speaking. 
Better  than  games,  better  than  being  with  his  children,  better 
than  shooting  capercailzie  and  rabbits  at  Duntarvie,  their 
house  in  Perthshire,  better  than  his  curbed  enjoyment  of  his 
wife's  virginal  freshness,  was  to  him  the  elevation  of  a  plat- 
form. This  for  him  was  the  unique  sensation  of  existence. 
He  had  the  gift  of  winning  and  holding  attention,  and  he  was 
supremely  conscious  of  the  upturned  faces  of  his  audience 
drinking  in  each  word  as  he  made  point  after  point  with  a 
shallow,  limped  charm.  So  long  as  he  was  speaking  to  an 
assembly  that  secret  emptiness  of  his  did  not  matter. 

rv 

Juley  had  wakened,  and  was  rummaging  in  her  stuffed 
hand-bag  for  Sholto's  letter.  To  find  it,  she  had  to  turn 
everything  out  upon  the  seat  beside  her.  There  were  various 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  15 

purses  and  pocket-books — part  of  her  complicated  system  of 
account — also  several  handkerchiefs,  a  good  pair  of  gloves 
to  put  on  when  she  reached  Edinburgh,  some  tracts — pink 
and  yellow — and  the  paper  bag  in  which  the  breakfast  roll 
had  been,  now  folded  and  neatly  encircled  by  an  elastic  band. 
Linnet  pounced  on  a  piece  of  toffee  he  had  given  to  his  mother 
a  week  ago.  But  he  and  his  brother  at  once  stopped  fighting 
for  the  sweet  when  at  length  Juley  began  to  read  aloud  from 
the  sheets  of  crackling  paper  written  over  in  the  father's  fine 
flourishing  hand-writing. 

"  .  .  The  blessed  work  goes  on  famously  here,  thank  God," 
he  wrote.  And  his  wife  raised  eyes  shining  with  solemn 
hilarity — eyes  none  of  the  children  cared  to  meet.  "...  Pray, 
Juley,  that  our  little  ones  may  all  become  workers  in  His 
vineyard — Bannermen  and  Bannerwomen  of  that  Better 
Country  to  the  end!  I  have  had  a  troublesome  cold  this  last 
week,  but  hope  to  shake  it  off  in  a  day  or  two,  D.V.  We  are 
having  severe  weather;  and  although  in  other  respects  superior 
to  ours  in  Glasgow,  the  Y.M.C.A.  Hall  here  has  a  very  draughty 
platform.  Tell  Georgy-Porgy  that  Father  wears  the  wollen 
comforter  she  knitted  for  him,  and  has  found  it  a  comforter 
indeed.  But  it  would  hardly  do  to  appear  in  it  while  address- 
ing a  meeting  of  2,000  souls,  now  would  it?  Kiss  her  and 
Joanna  and  the  boys  for  me,  and  tell  them  Father  expects 
them  to  look  after  you  in  his  absence,  particularly  as  to  getting 
you  to  your  bed  in  decent  time  .  .  ." 

"A-ha!  Do  you  hear  that,  Mother?  "  interrupted  Georgia; 
but  her  mother  lifted  a  forefinger  for  silence. 

"  Remember,"  she  continued  reading,  "  that  the  Body, 
ordained  as  the  earthly  temple  in  which  the  Soul  dwells 
during  our  brief  sojourn  here,  needs  reasonable  rest  and  care 
until  that  joyful  Day  of  our  Release.  To  die  in  harness  has 
always,  been  my  prayer,  but  we  have  been  given  certain  Rules 
of  Health  on  the  most  sacred  authority,  as  also  the  Common 
Sense  enabling  us  to  observe  them.  May  God  guide  you, 
my  dear  wife,  in  all  wisdom,  and  give  you  ever  more  deeply 
that  Peace  which  passeth  all  understanding. 

"  Your  .affectionate  husband, 
"  JOHN  SHOLTO  BANNERMAN.  " 

Before  she  was  quite  finished,  Juley's  voice  broke,  and  she 
wiped  her  eyes  with  simple  ostentation. 


*6  OPEN    THE    DOOR 

'•'  Thank  God,  children,  for  such  a  father  as  you  have'  " 

she  exclaimed.     Then  finding  that  Sholto  had  added  a  post- 

script  to  his  letter-"  Since  writing  this,"  she  read  out     «  my 

cold  has  become  worse,  and  seems  now  to  be  on  my  chest 

not  chest  of  drawers,  tell  Linnet!),  but  Mrs.  Ross  here,  is  a 

koff  shortly0"  E  8reat  P°Ulticer'  S0  l  exPect>   D'V->  to  throw 

i  "A\  Fa*er^ied'  would  we  have  a  cablegram  by  the  line 
laid  by  the  Great  Eastern? »  asked  Linnet  with  unusual 
animation. 

"Linnet!  How  can  you!"  cried  Georgie.  Whereupon 
Linnet  subsided  But  his  imagination  had  been  captured  by 
the  idea  of  the  cable,  and  he  had  been  thinking  of  it 
while  his  mother  was  reading.  Two  months  ago  they  had 
all  gone  to  Liverpool  to  see  their  father  off,  and  the  children 
had  been  taken  over  the  Great  Eastern  which  lay  there  as  a 
show  ship  before  being  broken  up.  Linnet  had  been  im- 
pressed by  the  story  of  how  the  cable  had  been  laid  under 

2TrtS;fc  J25  J6  hu!f  h°ped  ^  his  father  w<>«ld  die, 
so  that  he  should  be  able  to  see  with  his  own  eyes  what  a 
cablegram  looked  like.  He  wondered  if  it  got  much  nibbled 
by  fishes  on  its  way. 

***** 
It  was  after  all  a  united  little  party  that  was  driven  an 
hour  later  to  Aunt  Georgia's  imposing  front  door  in  Moray 
ce;   the    more    so    because    certain    humiliation    awaited 
hem  there.    Unpunctuality  was  a  weakness  with  which  Mrs 
ilmam  had  no  sympathy;     and  from  their  cousin  Mabel' 
who  alone  had  met  them  at  the  station,  they  knew  that  their 
telegram  had  not  arrived  in  time  to  prevent  inconvenience. 
Mabel  with  Irene,  Aunt  Georgia's  only  daughter  had  already 
started  in  the  carriage  to  meet  the  missed  express,  whereat 
Irene  had  been  greatly  annoyed.    She  and  the  carriage  were 
now  paying  calls,  so  that  the  Bannermans  must  be  content 
with  a  common  cab.     Mabel,  who  was  a  Bannerman,  not  a 
Balmain,  and  was  not  an  intimate  of  the  Moray  Place  house- 
hold   was   sympathetic,   as   always,   in   a   misfortune.      But 
neither  Georgie  nor  Joanna  failed  to  notice  the  sly  grin  which 
their  orphaned  cousin  could  never  wholly  restrain  when  the 
family  from  Glasgow  got  into  trouble  with  their  Edinburgh 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  17 


To  the  Bannermans  from  Glasgow  the  worldly  grandeur 
of  their  father's  eldest  sister  did  not  make  for  comfort.  They 
would  far  rather  have  stayed,  as  Mabel  did,  with  the  gentler 
spinster  Aunt  Ellen,  in  her  rambling  house  at  Colinton  that 
had  been  worn  shabby  by  generations  of  the  family.  True, 
even  at  Aunt  Ellen's  there  was  nothing  like  the  freedom  of 
Collessie  Street,  but  at  least  one  did  not  suffer  from  con- 
stant strain  and  terror.  Mabel  was  double-faced,  but  she  put 
on  no  airs  like  Cousin  Irene,  whose  recent  engagement  to  a 
rising  young  member  of  Parliament  had  caused  a  stir  in  Edin- 
burgh Society.  Mabel  was  only  too  glad  to  be  invited  to 
Duntarvie  in  the  holidays  and  to  wear  Georgie's  outgrown 
muslins.  Though  her  mother  had  been  a  Bannerman,  her 
father  had  come  of  less  desirable  stock.  But  Aunt  Georgina's 
husband  was  Lord  Westermuir,  a  judge  of  the  Court  of  Session ; 
and  her  prune-colored  silk  gown  that  rustled,  her  long,  gold  ear- 
rings that  dangled,  and  the  profusion  of  old  lace  which  was 
displayed  on  her  handsome  bosom,  all  proclaimed  that  in 
her  the  high-water  mark  of  the  Bannerman  house  had  been 
reached. 

The  same  ineffable  standard  was  set  by  Aunt  Georgina's 
luncheon  table,  at  which  on  the  following  day  the  Glasgow 
Bannermans  took  their  places.  At  Morey  Place  every  meal 
was  a  ceremony.  But  luncheon  with  its  decked  sideboard,  its 
gloss  of  perfect  damask,  its  array  of  polished  crystal  and 
crested  silver,  and  its  ormolu-handled  fruit  dishes  of  apple 
green  and  gold,  was  for  the  children  the  supremely  dis- 
concerting event  of  the  day.  Joanna  had  always  connected 
its  restrained  lavishness  with  a  verse  of  Scripture  often  quoted 
by  her  mother,  bidding  us  to  "  seek  first  the  Kingdom  of 
God  ..."  It  was  the  "  all  these  things  "  of  the  latter  part 
of  the  text,  which  were  to  be  "  added  unto  "  the  obedient 
seeker,  that  seemed  embodied  to  the  carnal  eye  in  Aunt 
Georgina's  table  at  precisely  one  o'clock  each  day.  And  it 
was  a  puzzle  to  the  child,  considering  her  mother's  fine  en- 
thusiasm for  God's  Kingdom,  that  the  Collessie  Street  appoint- 
ments should  remain  so  lacking  in  elegance. 

That  morning  Juley  had  taken  the  four  children  and  Mabel 
to  the  opening  of  the  Free  Church  Assembly.  For  her  it  was 
the  treat  of  the  year,  and  she  was  so  genuinely  aglow  with  it 


i8  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

that  the  children  had  to  share  in  her  elation.  Besides,  the 
big  ministerial  gathering  on  the  Mound  was  an  impressive 
sight,  especially  to  those  who  had  a  traditional  part  in  it, 
and  had  not  both  their  grandfathers  "  come  out "  at  the  Dis- 
ruption of  1843?  Had  not  Grandpapa  Bannerman  been  so 
famous  that  wherever  they  visited  they  saw  his  engraved 
portrait  hanging  in  people's  entrance  halls? 

So  the  young  people  had  been  thrilled  as  they  took  their 
seats  in  the  large,  square  building,  and  they  had  loved  stand- 
ing up  when  the  compact  body  of  black-coated  men,  ringed 
about  by  their  womenfolk  and  children,  rose  to  receive  the 
venerable  Moderator.  But  the  climax  was  reached  when  the 
Assembly,  without  the  accompaniment  of  any,  instrument, 
had  lifted  up  its  voice  in  the  Old  Hundredth.  Then  Juley, 
as  she  sang  loudly,  had  wept  with  unconcealed  joy;  and 
Georgie  and  Joanna  might  also  have  yielded  to  the  surge  of 
emotion  had  it  not  been  for  the  smirking  scrutiny  of  Mabel. 

When  Juley  shed  tears  because  of  God's  amazing  goodness, 
her  face  became  enraptured;  yet  at  the  same  time  one  knew 
that  she  rejoiced  in  her  capacity  for  rapture.  The  emotion 
was  valid,  but  she  hoped  it  would  not  go  unremarked,  and  in 
the  way  she  looked  about  her  with  wet  eyes,  there  was  a  hint 
of  reproach  for  the  apathetic  world  in  which  her  ecstasy  found 
itself  singular. 

To  her  daughters  the  perception  of  all  this  was  bad  enough 
in  public  places;  when  it  was  shared  by  Mabel  it  was  tor- 
ture. Mabel,  so  pretty,  dark  and  sidelong,  (when  she  walked, 
she  actually  seemed  to  advance  sideways)  would  look  linger- 
ingly  at  her  Aunt's  face.  Then  dropping  her  eyelids  she  would 
smile  to  herself.  Soon  she  would  send  a  liquid  glance  either 
way  to  Georgie  and  Joanna  to  make  sure  that  they  had  ob- 
served her  amusement.  She  would  know  at  once  by  their 
stony  expressions  that  the  shaft  of  ridicule  had  gone  home. 

And  now  Aunt  Georgina  had  helped  them  all  to  soup  from 
a  silver  tureen.  Georgie  was  sipping  hers  in  what  she  knew 
to  be  the  correct  way,  from  the  side  of  the  spoon  instead  of 
from  the  tip  as  she  did  at  home;  and  Joanna  had  nervously 
raised  a  glass  of  water  to  her  lips,  when  she  caught  her  Aunt's 
eye  upon  her. 

"We  don't  usually  drink  water  before  our  soup,  Joanna," 
said  Mrs.  Balmain  quietly.  "  At  least,"  she  added,  "  I  don't 
know  how  you  do  in  Glasgow.  In  Edinburgh  it  is  thought 


OPENTHEDOOR  19 

vulgar  to  drink  immediately  before  food.     Besides  it  is  bad 
for  the  stomach." 

Joanna  crimsoned  and  put  down  her  glass  untouched. 
Neither  her  mother's  kind,  grieved  glance  nor  the  message 
of  sympathy  sent  across  the  table  from  Georgie's  eyes  could 
salve  her  wound.  Though  a  murderous  hatred  of  her  aunt 
rose  in  her,  she  unhesitatingly  condemned  herself.  She  had 
not  known  any  better  than  to  drink  water  before  food,  and 
now  she  sat  disgraced  before  them  all — particularly  before 
Cousin  Irene,  for  whom  that  very  morning  at  breakfast  she 
had  conceived  a  violent  admiration.  Oh,  why  were  she  and 
her  family  not  in  keeping  with  the  elegance  around  them? 
Why  were  they  not  cool  and  at  ease  at  the  luncheon  table 
as  Cousin  Irene  was?  Joanna  and  Georgie  had  long  ago 
agreed  that  Cousin  Irene  was  a  "  softie  "  and  a  snob.  But 
at  this  moment  Joanna  with  her  craving  for  exquisiteness 
was  passionately  envious  of  Irene's  endowments.  She  felt 
ashamed,  not  only  of  herself  but  of  the  others.  She  looked 
across  at  her  mother  who  was  encouraging  Sholto  to  finish  his 
soup  by  blowing  upon  each  spoonful;  at  Linnet  who  lounged 
back  in  his  chair;  at  Georgie  who  was  being  so  careful  with 
her  tablespoon.  And  there  was  Mabel  smiling  hatefully,  with 
her  eyes  on  her  plate.  Joanna  reminded  herself  desperately 
that  the  Erskines,  on  one  side  at  least,  were  of  a  far  more 
distinguished  history  than  either  the  Bannermans  or  the 
Balmains.  But  this  consideration  only  added  the  sting  of 
unfairness  to  her  present  sense  of  inferiority.  And  she 
suffered. 


VI 

Three  days  later  came  the  news  of  their  father's  death  from 
pneumonia. 

They  were  all  five  sitting  in  Aunt  Georgina's  little  morn- 
ing-room, the  only  room  in  the  house  where  the  children 
felt  at  ease.  The  boys  were  on  the  floor  making  a  paper 
fire-balloon;  and  Joanna,  with  the  book  of  directions  open  in 
front  of  her,  was  at  a  table  cutting  out  and  glueing  together 
the  more  delicate  parts  for  her  brothers.  They  were  very 
happy  and  busy  amid  a  litter  of  tissue  paper.  But  Georgie, 
sitting  by  the  window,  would  insist  on  discussing  the  verbal 
inspiration  of  the  Bible,  a  subject  mentioned  that  morning 


20  OPENTHEDOOR 

in  the  Assembly.  And  Juley  had  laid  down  her  Asia's 
Millions,  the  better  to  refute  her  daughter's  argument. 

"  It  says  in  Genesis,  Mother,  that  Adam  and  Eve  were 
the  first  man  and  woman;  now,  doesn't  it?  "  demanded 
Georgie. 

"  Yes,  dear,  "  Juley  admitted,  but  doubtfully,  suspecting 
a  trap. 

"  Yet,"  pursued  the  girl  with  increasing  truculence,  "  when 
Cain  was  sent  to  wander  about  after  killing  Abel,  he  got 
married  and  had  children.  Now  who  could  marry  him,  if  he 
only  had  brothers  and  sisters?  There  couldn't  even  have 
been  cousins!  " 

"  Besides,"  put  in  Joanna  as  she  neatly  blew  out  a  section 
of  the  balloon  on  which  the  glue  had  dried,  "  it  says  that  God 
told  people  not  to  kill  Cain.  What  people  can  these  have 
been?  " 

"  You  must  admit  it  looks  a  bit  fishy,  Mother, "  wound  up 
Georgie. 

"  Georgie!  "  her  mother  reprimanded  her,  here  on  sure 
ground,  "  I  cannot  have  such  words  used  of  God's  Holy 
Word!  " 

"  Oh,  well!  Anyhow  you  can't  get  over  the  contradiction, 
can  you?  And  that's  only  one  of  heaps.  Now,  what  I  say 
is  .  .  ." 

But  no  one  was  ever  to  hear  this  important  saying  of 
Georgie's  for  at  that  moment  Aunt  Georgina  entered  the 
room.  Tight  in  her  hand  she  carried  a  slip  of  greenish  paper, 
and  though  her  grip  on  herself  was  equally  firm,  even  little 
Sholto  knew  instantly  that  she  was  the  bearer  of  grave  tid- 
ings. At  her  low-voiced,  startlingly  kind  bidding,  the  children 
trooped  out  by  the  door  she  had  left  open.  But  before  it 
had  shut  behind  them  they  caught  the  magic  word — cable, 
and  were  terrified  by  the  even  more  unusual  expression  on 
their  Aunt's  lips — My  poor  sister!  " 

Instinctively  the  four  moved  to  the  end  of  the  passage 
and  huddled  close  together  there,  like  sheep  before  the  storm 
breaks.  Not  a  sound  came  from  the  little  morning-room. 
Linnet  durst  not  ask  his  sisters  the  questions  about  the  cable 
that  trembled  on  his  lips. 

It  was  thus  that  their  Aunt  found  them  when  she  came 
out  again,  softly  closing  the  door  after  her  as  if  upon  a  sick- 
room. On  her  proud  face  was  a  look  none  of  them  knew — 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  21 

a  look  of  stricken  passion  that  altered  her  and  frightened 
them.  Sholto  had  been  among  the  few  beings  his  sister  had 
ever  loved,  and  when  they  were  boy  and  girl  together  she  had 
been  madly  proud  of  him. 

She  laid  her  hand  now  on  her  young  namesake's  shoulder. 

"  My  poor  children,"  she  said.  "  You  will  have  to  be  very 
brave  for  your  mother's  sake." 

Georgie  was  the  only  one  to  speak.  The  others  seemed 
petrified.  "  It's  not  anything  wrong  with  Father?  "  she 
questioned.  And  on  a  rising  key  at  her  Aunt's  low  reply,  she 
cried  out — 

"  No,  no!  ...  I  won't  have  it  ...  I  can't  bear  it  ... 
I  tell  you  it  isn't  true!  Father,  Father!  Let  me  go.  Don't 
touch  me!  " 

There  was  horror  for  Joanna  in  the  noise  Georgie  was  mak- 
ing. Georgie's  voice  sounded  all  over  the  house,  while  Aunt 
Georgina  was  so  quiet.  And  how  quiet  it  was  in  there  where 
•Mother  was!  With  a  quick  movement  the  child  broke  from 
the  others  to  run  to  her  mother.  But  Aunt  Georgina  caught 
her  by  the  arm,  still  gripping  Georgie  also. 

"  Control  yourself,  Georgie,  and  think  of  your  mother," 
she  commanded  with  grievous  severity;  and  her  fingers  felt 
like  iron  on  the  young  flesh.  "  Remember  you  are  the 
eldest.  Think  of  how  your  father  would  wish  you  to  be- 
have." 

"  I'll  try,  I'll  try!  "  sobbed  Georgie.  "Don't  speak  to  me." 
And  presently  their  Aunt  left  them,  telling  them  they  might  go 
to  their  mother. 

In  the  morning-room  they  found  Juley  strangely  uplifted. 
And  when  each  had  clung  to  her  in  turn,  she  addressed  them 
starry-eyed  and  lyrical. 

"  My  beloved  children,"  she  said  quietly,  "  it  has  pleased 
Our  Heavenly  Father  to  lay  His  hand  upon  us  all,  and  try 
our  faith,  whether  it  be  faith  indeed.  He  has  taken  your 
earthly  Father  to  Himself.  We  can  only  pray  for  strength, 
and  look  for  our  refuge  in  Him.  For  He  is  our  Refuge  and 
our  Strength  in  time  of  trouble.  Let  us  pray  to  Him  now, 
together,  that  I,  my  darlings,  may  be  given  the  strength  to 
be  to  you  father  and  mother  both,  until  it  pleases  Him  in  His 
great  mercy  to  take  me  also  to  Himself.  Let  us  pray  to  the 
Father  of  the  fatherless." 

Upon  this  the  tears  gushed  from  her  eyes,  and  she  would 


22  OPEN   THE    DOOR 

have  knelt  down  with  them  at  the  sofa.  But  Georgie  re- 
fused. 

"  I  won't  pray  to  your  God!  "  she  cried  out  at  the  pitch  of 
her  voice.  "  If  it  pleases  Him  for  Father  to  die,  like  this, 
away  from  us  all,  I  don't  love  Him.  I  hate  your  God!  My 
God  is  quite  different.  I'll  go  and  pray  to  my  God.  He'll 
know  that  you  can't  ever  make  up  to  me  for  Father.  Oh! 
I  can't  bear  it!  "  And  she  rushed  from  the  room. 

"  Poor  Georgie!  "  said  Juley.  "  God  the  Maker  of  our 
hearts  speaks  to  us  all  in  different  ways."  And  with  the 
remaining  children  she  poured  herself  forth  in  prayer. 

When  at  length  she  had  left  the  boys  in  Joanna's  charge, 
none  of  them  spoke  for  a  few  moments.  Then  in  the  gaping 
chasm  of  silence  Linnet  moved  diffidently  to  where  his  inter- 
rupted work  still  lay  on  the  carpet,  and  he  picked  up  a  streamer 
of  blue  paper. 

"  I  suppose  we  may  as  well  finish  making  our  fire-balloon, 
Sholto, "  he  remarked. 

Now  'the  tears  sprung  to  Joanna's  eyes  and  rolled  down  her 
cheeks.  It  was  'not  that  she  felt  any  real,  personal  loss. 
But  something  in  her  little  brother's  aspect  made  her  see  them 
suddenly  as  fatherless. 

"Oh,  Linnet!"  she  exclaimed,  striving  for  a  degree  of 
realization.  "  Think!  We'll  never  hear  Father  blow  his  nose 
again  like  a  trumpet  in  the  lobby  when  he  comes  home  at 
night." 

"  And  he'll  never  be  Lord  Provost  now,  either,"  appended 
Sholto  morosely,  "  with  the  two  lamp-posts  in  front  of  our 
door." 

Linnet  nodded,  seeing  the  tragedy  in  this.  And  in  defer- 
ence to  it,  he  kept  to  himself  his  bitter  disappointment  about 
the  look  of  the  cable. 

VII 

But  is  was  Georgie  who  was  wakened  in  the  small  hours 
of  the  morning,  and  taken  to  her  mother's  bedside  to  play  the 
daughter's  part  there.  They  had  had  to  send  for  the  doctor 
at  midnight;  and  Aunt  Georgina  had  not  been  able  to  lie 
down,  nor  even  to  take  off  her  dress.  She  was  grim  with 
weariness  and  sorrow. 

Henceforward  Georgie  wore  a  look  of  satisfied  importance, 
as  of  one  who  has  been  momentously  confided  in.  But  it  was 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  23 

some  days  before  Joanna  could  get  her  to  share  the  secret. 

"  You  must  promise  faithfully  not  to  tell  Mabel,"  Georgie 
stipulated,  giving  way  at  last. 

Joanna  promised  faithfully. 

"  Well  then,  "  said  Georgie,  lowering  her  voice  to  a  searching 
whisper,  "  we  were  going  to  have  had  a  baby;  but  now  it's  not 
coming,  because  of  Father.  And  that's  why  Mother  is  ill 
in  bed  and  seeing  the  doctor.  She  only  said  it  was  a  Dis- 
appointment. It  was  Aunt  Georgina  told  me  the  rest.  She 
said  at  fifteen  I  was  old  enough  to  know.  All  the  same,  re- 
member you  have  promised  not  to  tell  Mabel." 

Joanna,  gratifyingly  awestruck,  gazed  at  her  sister.  The 
collective  "  we  "  in  Georgie's  mouth  impressed  her  strongly. 
Had  she  sought  in  her  mind  there  were  a  thousand  questions 
to  be  asked.  But  at  twelve  one  is  still  used  to  accepting  mys- 
teries without  challenge. 

And  so  this  strange  new  loss  which  was  in  some  indiscover- 
able  way  connected  with  her  father's  death  in  America,  was 
stored  in  the  dark  lumber-room  of  the  child's  mind. 


CHAPTER  II 


AS  soon  as  Juley  was  well  enough  she  returned  home  with 
the  children  to  Glasgow.  And  there,  when  they  were 
got  past  the  first  excitement  of  condolences,  it  looked  as  if 
things  would  continue  much  as  they  had  been  in  Sholto's 
life-time.  Every  one  said  that  the  widow  bore  up  wonder- 
fully, that  she  was  an  example  of  Christian  fortitude. 

Sholto's  affairs  were  in  good  order  though  people  were 
surprised  at  the  smallness  of  his  estate,  and  business  acquaint- 
ances shook  their  heads  a  little,  murmuring  the  word  "  specula- 
tions." But  Juley  herself  made  no  complaint.  She  was  in- 
deed relieved  at  having  to  give  up  her  husband's  cherished 
project  of  moving  to  a  grander  house  in  a  more  fashionable 
neighborhood. 

Collessie  Street,  at  the  top  of  its  precipitous,  roughly 
cobbled  hill,  had  at  one  time  been  a  residential  quarter  of 
distinction.  But  in  1896,  the  roomy,  solid,  black  houses — 
deep-bitten  by  the  carbonic  deposits  of  half  a  century — 
with  their  square-pillared  porticoes,  and  their  stone  areas 
guarded  by  rusty  spear-head  railings,  had  a  forsaken  look. 
Their  domestic  curtains  were  more  and  more  giving  place  to 
the  ground-glass  and  perforated  metal  screens  of  institutions; 
and  where  once  a  famous  surgeon  had  brought  up  his  family, 
there  was  now  a  dingy  training-home  for  fallen  girls.  The 
place,  however,  was  not  without  dignity.  And  to  Juley  and 
her  children,  the  ugly,  well-built  house  at  the  corner  felt  like 
a  part  of  themselves.  They  all  hated  the  idea  of  leaving  it, 
even  for  the  excitement  of  a  West-End  mansion. 

From  the  big  day-nursery  windows  on  the  top  story  which 
commanded  wide,  gray  views  to  the  south  and  west,  the  girls 
could  remember  watching  the  distant  ascent  of  their  first 
fireworks — rockets  soaring  in  honor  of  Glasgow's  earliest  Ex- 
hibition. From  the  same  windows  they  had  seen  with  rapture 
the  first  lighting  of  the  city  by  electricity.  And  three  times 
they  had  hung  out  great  flags  over  the  sills  for  Royal  Pro- 

24 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  25 

cessions.  Once  Georgie  was  quite  certain  that  Queen  Victoria 
driving  up  Sauchiehall  Street,  had  waved  her  hand  in  special 
acknowledgment  to  their  high  window. 

Within  the  house,  as  one  entered,  the  first  thing  to  meet 
the  eye  was  a  richly  illuminated  scroll  bearing  the  words — 

AS  FOR  ME  AND  MY  HOUSE,  WE  SHALL  SERVE 
THE  LORD. 

It  had  been  Sholto's  first  act  on  returning  from  his  wedding- 
trip,  to  hang  this  text.  And  Juley  often  looked  at  it  now, 
remembering  vividly  how  her  bridegroom  had  stood  on  a 
chair  to  nail  it  in  its  trumpery  frame  full  between  the  marbled 
pillars  of  the  lobby  so  that  nobody  could  miss  it.  He  had 
laughed  and  had  kissed  her  afterwards.  And  the  sight  of 
it  in  these,  the  early  days  of  her  widowhood,  always  filled  her 
with  resolution. 

But  as  time  went  on  it  began  to  be  evident  that  Sholto's 
widow  and  his  children  were  variously  disposing  themselves 
to  serve  the  Lord  in  ways  which  Sholto  himself  would  have 
dealt  with  summarily  had  he  been  alive.  More  and  more 
Juley's  resolution  when  she  looked  at  the  house-text  became 
linked  with  a  stricken  conscience:  more  and  more  she  saw 
that  to  play  the  double  part  of  father  and  mother  was  not 
going  to  be  so  easy  as  at  first  she  had  imagined. 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Joanna  tentatively  one  night  as  she  and 
Georgie  were  getting  into  bed —  "  I  wonder  what  Father 
would  say  if  he  knew  you  missed  out  '  for  Jesus'  sake '  in 
your  prayers  now?  " 

But  Georgie  was  ready  for  such  questions. 

"  Father  isn't  the  same  now  as  he  was,"  she  told  her  sister. 
"  He  understands  everything  now,  and  knows  just  what  I 
feel  about  God  and  all  that." 


n 

It  was  at  this  time,  within  a  year  of  her  father's  death 
that  Joanna  had  a  dream  about  him. 

She  was  sleeping  that  night  with  her  mother  (in  spite  of 
many  disadvantages  it  was  still  regarded  as  a  treat  among 
them  to  sleep  with  Mother)  and  had  wakened  suddenly  at 
three  in  the  morning  with  a  familiar  pang  of  misery  at  finding 


26  OPEN   THE    DOOR 

no  bedfellow.  Juley  had  not  even  got  so  far  as  to  fall  asleep 
at  her  prayers  by  the  bedside.  So  Joanna  arose,  and  shiver- 
ing with  fury  and  cold  went  barefoot  down  to  the  parlor. 
There,  as  she  expected,  she  found  her  mother  seated  before 
her  untidy  roll-top  desk  with  her  head  fallen  on  her  papers. 
She  had  dropped  asleep  over  a  letter  in  the  middle  of  an 
erasure,  and  she  wore  the  old  squirrel-lined  cape  in  which  she 
always  ran  out  to  catch  the  midnight  "  lifting  "  at  the  corner 
pillar. 

When  at  last  they  were  both  upstairs,  Joanna  climbed 
back  into  bed,  and,  having  exhausted  herself  in  bitter  reproach, 
lay  wide  awake  and  silent  while  her  mother  undressed.  No 
matter  how  tired  she  felt,  Juley  was  meticulous  over  her 
toilet.  Always  she  had  to  dip  her  brush  in  the  ewer  so  as 
to  dampen  the  front  part  of  her  hair  before  plaiting  it  separ- 
ately from  the  rest.  Her  creamy  neck,  covered  at  other 
times,  and  her  raised,  unconscious  arms,  so  astonishingly  soft 
and  youthful,  gave  the  watching  child  a  deep  thrill  of  pleasure. 
Soon  the  thin,  sleek  plait  was  ready  to  be  tossed  back,  and 
Juley  turned  out  the  gas.  Then  did  Joanna  creep  immedi- 
ately into  her  mother's  arms,  and  in  that  warm,  lovely  encirc- 
ling, her  thin  little  body  was  flooded  with  well-being. 

When  they  were  both  asleep,  Joanna  dreamed  that  a 
visitor  was  standing  on  the  outside  doorstep,  ringing  and 
ringing  at  the  bell  for  admittance;  but  that  she  alone  of  all 
the  house  heard  the  summons.  Going  downstairs  in  her  dream 
to  open  the  door,  she  peeped  first  through  the  ground  glass 
which  formed  its  upper  panel.  Engraved  on  the  glass  was 
the  head  of  a  man  with  a  curly  beard,  long  believed  by  the 
children,  for  some  inexplicable  reason,  to  be  a  portrait  of  Satan ; 
and  by  putting  an  eye  level  with  Satan's  eye  they  were  ac- 
customed to  spy  through  upon  visitors.  Joanna  did  this  in 
her  dream,  and  saw  what  froze  her  with  horror.  It  was  her 
father  that  stood  without.  He  was  unmistakable,  though  in 
some  indefinable  way  horribly  altered,  and  his  presence  filled 
her  with  repulsion.  Father  was  dead.  They  had  had  a  cable 
to  say  so,  had  mourned  him,  and  he  had  no  right  to  come 
back  in  this  way.  In  terror,  but  under  a  kind  of  constraint, 
she  opened  the  door  one  small  inch.  And  that  dreadful 
stranger  who  was  yet  her  father  tried  to  push  his  way  into 
the  house.  But  now  hatred  overcame  every  other  feeling,  and, 
shutting  the  door  with  all  her  might,  Joanna  fled  upstairs. 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  27 

As  she  went,  all  her  determination  was  never  to  let  the  others 
know  who  had  called. 

On  waking,  which  she  did  immediately  afterwards,  the 
child  was  first  conscious  of  immense  relief  that  no  such  return 
need  in  reality  be  feared.  "  For,  "  said  she  to  herself  in  that 
conscienceless  moment,  "  we  can  do  as  we  please  now  he  is 
gone."  But  with  complete  awakening,  all  and  more  than  all 
the  repulsion  of  her  dream  turned  upon  herself.  How  could 
she  have  acted  so  wickedly  in  sleep,  thought  so  unkindly  on 
waking?  She  lay  listening  to  her  mother's  quiet  breathing, 
picturing  her  mother's  eyes  and  Georgie's,  could  they  have 
seen  into  her  unloving  mind.  And  for  days  afterwards,  until 
she  had  done  penance,  her  heart  was  heavy. 

m 

The  opportunity  for  penance  came  in  this  way. 

On  the  road  to  school,  Georgie  and  Joanna  had  to  pass  a 
wind-swept  corner  where  a  disfigured  woman  sat  all  day  on  a 
camp  stool.  Slung  from  her  neck  was  a  stout  piece  of  card- 
board on  which  the  words  KIND  FRIENDS  I  AM  BLIND 
had  been  scrawled.  And  sometimes — though  their  father  had 
always  condemned  what  he  called  "  unorganized,"  "  indis- 
criminate," or  "  spurious  "  charity,  particularly  in  any  case 
so  clearly  marked  as  this  one  was  for  the  Blind  Asylum  of 
which  he  was  a  director — one  of  the  girls  would  slip  a  penny 
into  the  beggar's  hand.  Once  Georgie  had  spoken  to  her,  ask- 
ing if  she  had  any  children  at  home,  and  Joanna  had  been 
smitten  by  the  toneless  negative  of  the  reply.  "  Do  you  think 
anybody  ever  kisses  her?  "  she  asked  her  sister  after  they  had 
walked  on  some  way  in  silence. 

"  I  don't  expect  so,"  had  been  Georgie's  answer.  And  as 
an  afterthought — "  She  wouldn't  be  very  nice  to  kiss,  would 
she?  " 

It  could  not  be  denied.  Even  while  Joanna  was  feeling 
obscurely  something  of  that  strangest  envy  of  the  human 
soul — the  envy  of  utter  misfortune — she  shuddered  at  the 
thought  of  touching  the  afflicted  face  with  her  lips.  Yet  she 
was  sure  she  ought  to.  The  unkissed  woman  with  the  terribly 
prominent,  closed  eyelids  persisted  in  her  imagination.  Night 
after  night,  when  the  figure  of  sorrowful  censure  visited  her 
bedside,  she  said  to  herself—"  To-morrow  I  will  do  it.  To- 
morrow I  will  make  myself  kiss  her!  "  But  day  after  day, 


28  OPEN    THE    DOOR 

passing  to  and  from  school,  she  had  shrunk  from  the  deed 
which  the  night  before  had  seemed  so  possible  and  right. 
And  gradually  she  was  becoming  used  to  the  denial. 

Under  the  fresh  reproach  of  her  dream,  however,  Joanna 
conceived  of  this  kiss,  so  long  withheld,  as  the  appointed 
expiation.  At  night  she  had  anguished  moments  in  which 
her  father  on  one  hand  and  the  blind  woman  on  the  other 
leveled  at  her  an  accusation  the  less  tolerable  for  being  un- 
spoken. 

And  on  the  following  Sunday  she  was  finally  urged  to  the 
act.  A  strange  minister  was  preaching  in  their  church.  He 
spoke  with  kindling  eloquence  about  the  woman  who  was 
healed  by  touching  Jesus  in  the  crowd;  so  that  suddenly 
Joanna,  strung  to  an  ecstasy,  took  her  resolve.  It  would  be 
more  correct  to  say  that  there  flashed  in  her  in  that  moment 
the  absolute  knowledge  that  she  would  accomplish  the  deed 
next  day. 

On  Monday  she  and  Georgie  passed  the  woman  as  usual. 
Georgie,  who  was  holding  forth  on  the  iniquities  of  her  former 
mistress,  did  not  even  glance  towards  the  camp  stool.  Nor 
did  she  look  round,  when  a  few  yards  further  on,  Joanna  mur- 
mured something  unintelligible  and  ran  back. 

Now  that  the  first  step  was  taken,  only  desperation  held 
her  to  her  task.  Her  breath  went  from  her,  her  lips  felt 
parched,  and  as  she  stooped  to  the  sightless  head  a  clang  of 
bells  sounded  in  her  ears.  For  a  moment  she  lost  all  con- 
sciousness of  her  surroundings. 

On  feeling  the  nearness  of  another  human  being,  the  poor 
creature  on  the  stool  instinctively  held  up  her  little  tin  mug; 
and  as  Joanna  drew  back  after  giving  the  kiss,  she  saw  this 
gesture.  There  had  been  no  other  response.  The  face  was 
vacant  and  unlovely  as  ever. 

Joanna  felt  deeply  ashamed.  In  her  self-centered  anxiety 
about  the  kiss  she  had  forgotten  to  bring  a  penny. 

"  I'll  bring  you  one  to-morrow,"  she  assured  the  beggar 
hastily.  Then  turning  away  she  sped  after  Georgie. 

"  Were  you  giving  her  a  penny?  "  Georgie  asked  but  with- 
out interest. 

"  No." 

"  What  were  you  doing  then?  " 

"  Nothing,  fastening  my  shoe-lace.  Go  on  with  what  you 
were  saying  about  Miss  Dunbar." 


OPENTHEDOOR  29 


rv 

All  her  childhood  Joanna  had  been  a  fugitive  from  the 
realities  immediately  surrounding  her  town  existence,  and  her 
intenser  life  was  lived  in  her  flights.  She  had  many  avenues 
of  escape;  but  of  these  the  best  was  provided  by  her  passion 
for  the  country. 

And  for  her  "  The  Country  "  and  every  one  of  its  joys  was 
summed  up  in  the  single  word  Duntarvie. 

The  children  owed  Duntarvie — which  was  a  real  place  as 
well  as  Joanna's  home  of  dreams — to  their  mother.  For 
Juley,  if  she  yearned  principally  after  her  children's  souls, 
cared  shrewdly  too  for  their  bodies.  She  would  not  allow 
them  to  have  dancing  lessons,  but  she  believed  in  young  legs 
running  wild.  Above  all  she  insisted  that  a  free  country  life 
for  at  least  four  months  out  of  the  twelve,  was  necessary  to 
counteract  the  early  delicacy  of  Linnet  and  Joanna.  The  old 
farm-house  in  East  Perthshire  had  once  belonged  to  the 
Erskines,  though  it  had  passed  half-a-cent,ury  ago  into  the 
hands  of  strangers.  But  when  Joanna  was  five  Juley  learned 
that  it  was  to  be  let,  and  she  gave  Sholto  no  peace  till  he  had 
taken  a  lease  of  the  place. 

To  the  children  there  was  music  in  the  very  name  of  the 
village  from  which  Duntarvie  was  three  miles  distant  uphill. 
And  the  square  white-washed  house — with  its  red-tiling 
(a  paradise  for  climbers),  its  ponds,  its  ruined  saw-mill, 
its  haphazard  garden  full  of  gooseberries,  currants  and 
wizened  tea-roses, — became  a  far  dearer  home  than  the  one 
in  town. 

Their  last  summer  at  Duntarvie  was  that  before  Sholto's 
death.  For  some  reason  there  could  be  no  renewal  of  the 
lease.  Loud  were  the  expressions  of  sorrow  in  the  household, 
and  Juley,  in  spite  of  the  enormous  addition  the  place  made 
to  her  domestic  cares,  was  as  sad  as  the  children. 

As  for  Joanna,  her  love  for  the  place  as  the  end  of  the 
time  drew  near  increased  to  an  agony,  and  more  and  more 
she  withdrew  her  voice  from  the  chorus  of  regret.  Instead, 
when  she  could,  she  would  leave  the  others,  and  run  up  and 
up  the  moor  in  front  of  the  house,  not  once  pausing  till  she 
reached  a  secret  lair  of  her  own  finding — a  dry,  pale,  golden 
bed  among  the  high  heather,  close  by  the  little  firwood  boun- 
dary with  its  rotting  silvery  fence,  and  there  flinging  herself 


30  OPEN    THE    DOOR 

on  the  ground  she  would  bury  her  face  in  the  sunwarmed 
moss  and  draw  deep  breaths  of  the  earth. 

Among  these  embraces  lavished  by  the  child  on  the  earth, 
embraces  more  fervent  than  any  she  had  given  as  yet  to  a 
human  being,  there  was  one  that  stood  out  for  ever  from  the 
others. 

One  September  morning  during  the  last  week  of  their  stay 
she  had  slipped  out  a  while  before  breakfast,  taking  her  way 
through  the  fringe  of  beeches  which  ran  up  behind  the  house 
between  steeply  sloping  fields  till  it  enringed  the  upper  pond. 
The  lower  pond,  near  the  outhouses  and  the  swing,  was  a 
homely  puddle  nozzled  in  by  ducks  and  navigated  by  a  raft 
made  from  the  doors  of  an  old  shed  with  Joanna's  stilts  as 
oars.  But  the  upper  pond,  besides  being  twice  the  size  of 
its  neighbor,  was  a  mysterious  water.  It  was  fed  by  a  natural 
spring;  and  a  legend  of  the  neighborhood  told  of  a  golden 
cradle  in  its  depths  containing  the  body  of  a  King's  babe  im- 
mune from  mortal  decay.  It  was  rush-bound,  betraying  its 
treacherous  surface  in  glints  only,  and  wild  fowl  of  many 
kinds  made  it  their  habitation.  Foxes  in  the  moonlight  slunk 
to  its  edge  to  drink;  and  on  an  islet  in  the  middle  season  after 
season  a  pair  of  herons  reared  their  young. 

To  this  haunted  pool,  with  its  girdle  of  beech  trees,  on 
which  Joanna  knew  every  foothold  and  every  untrustworthy 
branch,  she  stole  that  morning.  Lying  concealed  among  the 
drenched  reeds  of  the  margin,  she  waited  until  the  disturbed 
coots  and  waterhens  went  reassured  about  their  interminable* 
business.  For  what  seemed  an  age  she  stayed  motionless, 
listening  intently  to  each  tiny  splashing  and  diving,  to  the 
whisperings  among  the  bearded  rushes,  to  the  sudden  plump  of 
the  frogs,  to  the  chuckling  of  the  water-fowl  under  the  banks. 

At  that  moment  the  twelve-year-old  child  entered  deeply 
into  Nature's  heart,  and  for  the  first  time  it  came  to  her  that 
she  might  make  of  her  rapture  a  place  of  retreat  for  future 
days.  It  was  a  discovery.  Henceforth  she  felt  that  nothing, 
no  one,  would  have  power  to  harm  her.  For  all  her  life  now 
she  would  have  within  herself  this  hidden  refuge.  Even  if 
she  were  to  be  burned  at  the  stake,  or  flayed  alive  like  the 
people  in  Foxe's  Book  of  Martyrs,  she  would  be  able  to  fly  in 
spirit  from  her  torturers  to  this  reedy  water;  and  they  would 
wonder  why  she  smiled  amid  the  flames. 

So  she  lay  on  till  she  was  bodiless;  and  only  the  cold,  pene- 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  .    31 

trating  through  her  clothes  to  her  skin,  reminded  her.  She 
moved,  and  only  in  moving  realized  that  she  was  wet  through, 
and  cramped.  Her  stirring  startled  the  old  heron.  He  rose 
noisily,  first  trailing  his  feet  a  little  way  along  the  surface  of 
the  tarn,  then  made  away  westwards  till  he  became  a  far 
speck  over  the  hollow  where  the  nearest  farm  lay. 

Stretching  herself  and  shaking  the  water  from  her  hair, 
Joanna  felt  glad  at  the  thought  of  breakfast.  It  was  good 
that  the  others  were  waiting  at  home,  sitting  at  a  table  spread 
with  the  floury  baps  that  came  each  morning  fresh-baked  from 
the  village;  and  coffee,  and  bramble  jam,  and  fresh  butter, 
which  she  loved  to  greediness,  from  their  own  cow's  cream. 
But  before  turning  homeward  between  the  beech  trunks,  she 
stooped  once  more  to  the  ground,  and  leaning  on  her  two  palms 
kissed  the  moist  grass  till  the  taste  of  the  earth  was  on  her 
lips.  "  If  I  forget  thee  O  Duntarvie!  "  she  whispered,  "  let 
my  right  hand  forget  its  cunning."  (She  was  not  clear  about 
the  meaning  of  this  phrase;  but  she  loved  working  with  her 
hands,  and  the  words  expressed  her  emotion  better  than  any 
other  words  she  knew.)  Then  she  picked  up  some  odds  and 
ends — a  small  lichen-covered  twig,  a  skeleton  leaf,  and  the 
untimely  fallen  samara  of  a  sycamore — to  keep  as  remem- 
brances of  her  vow,  and  racing  back  to  the  house  she  arrived 
in  a  glow,  bright-cheeked,  her  short  skirts  dripping  from  the 
brackens. 


Mingled  with  these  raptures  were  the  early  stirrings  of 
Joanna's  womanhood,  and  at  seven  she  had  fallen  deeply  in 
love  with  her  cousin  Gerald  Bird,  who  was  then  twenty-five. 

Gerald,  only  son  of  Aunt  Perdy,  was  a  soldier,  and  he  was 
recovering  from  fever  caught  in  India  when  Juley  invited  him 
to  Duntarvie.  She  was  sure  that  he  would  quickly  get  strong 
in  that  wonderful  air.  And  strong  he  did  get  in  spite  of  his 
Aunt's  perseverance  in  probing  him  for  what  she  called  "  the 
root  of  the  matter;  "  in  spite  also  of  his  having  left  his  sus- 
ceptible heart  in  the  keeping  of  a  blue-eyed  jilt  in  Calcutta. 

He  traveled  with  the  Bannermans  from  Glasgow,  and  on 
the  little  local  line  which  ran  from  Perth  to  their  village,  the 
compartment  was  so  crowded  with  people  returning  from  a 
cattle-show,  that  he  took  Joanna  on  his  knee.  Gerald  was 
far  from  being  aware  of  the  bliss  his  careless  contact  gave  to 


32.  OPEN    THE    DOOR 

the  small  girl.  But  so  it  was.  For  the  last  forty-eight  hours 
Joanna  had  been  his  passionate  slave.  Now  the  loved  one  held 
her  in  his  arms,  and  that  she  might  stay  there  as  long  as  pos- 
sible she  pretended  to  fall  asleep,  leaning  her  cheek  against 
the  rough  coat  he  wore.  Ever  afterwards  the  smell  and 
texture  of  Harris  tweed  recalled  the  delirium  of  that  journey 
in  the  embrace  of  a  god. 

To  Joanna  Cousin  Gerald  was  indeed  a  god.  He  trans- 
gressed against  all  her  standards.  He  even  shot  chaffinches 
and  robins  with  his  revolver  and  afterwards  skinned  them. 
Yet  she  asked  for  nothing  better  than  to  stand  watching 
while  the  plumage  was  slit  down  the  breasts  and  slipped  deftly 
from  the  piteous  little  bodies  of  Gerald's  victims.  The  young 
man's  lean  wrists  and  his  long  fingers,  so  dark  and  merciless, 
thrilled  the  child  to  the  soul.  Secretly  she  imagined  herself 
a  little  fluttering  bird  in  their  cruel  yet  skilful  grasp:  and  she 
felt  she  would  gladly  have  let  them  crush  the  life  out  of  her 
for  their  own  inscrutable  ends. 

Actually  one  wet  afternoon  it  had  looked  to  her  as  if  her 
•fantastic  wish  might  come  true.  She  and  Gerald  were  in 
the  coach-house,  where  the  stanhope  and  dog-cart  were  kept 
among  a  litter  of  odds  and  ends, — gardening  tools,  empty 
flower-pots,  wheel-barrows,  and  rolls  of  wire  netting  for  the 
chicken  runs  which  Sholto  was  always  making — and  for 
perhaps  half-an-hour  she  had  been  watching  in  rapt  silence 
while  a  pearly-breasted  chaffinch  was  stuffed  and  sewed  up. 
But,  suddenly  tired  of  his  finicking  task,  Gerald  threw  down 
his  work  and  stretched  his  arms  above  his  head  with  a  groan. 
He  was  sitting  on  the  worn  bench  by  the  door,  with  his  back 
to  the  dripping  eaves,  and  presently  to  amuse  himself  he  drew 
Joanna  between  his  knees.  Smiling,  he  pointed  his  penknife 
that  was  still  blood-stained  against  the  child's  breast,  almost 
cutting  through  the  wool  of  her  faded,  tightly  stretched  jersey, 
and  he  threatened  to  skin  her  like  a  little  wild  bird.  To  his 
surprise — for  he  expected  her  to  wriggle  or  protest — Joanna 
stood  dumb  and  quite  still  and  strange  in  his  grip.  So  he 
soon  stopped  teasing  her.  But  he  had  provided  her  with  a 
theme  which  she  afterwards  embroidered  out  of  all  recognition 
in  many  an  erotic  rhapsody. 

Joanna  admired  everything  about  her  cousin.  She  idolized 
his  brown  face  and  bright  gray  piercing  gaze,  vibrated  at  the 
sight  of  his  hands,  and  at  any  time,  night  or  day,  could  see 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  33 

with  her  minds'  eye  the  wave  with  which  his  hair  crossed  his 
brow.  She  had  tried  hard  to  make  her  own  hair  lie  like  his; 
but  where  the  line  of  growth  began  round  her  forehead  there 
was  what  Georgie  called  her  "  baby  fringe,"  and  this  crop  of 
short  new  hairs,  fairer  than  the  rest,  would  do  nothing  but 
curve  downwards  in  obstinate,  fine  half-hoops  of  gold. 

There  was,  however,  one  secret  about  Gerald  which  terrified 
while  it  fascinated  her. 

It  happened  one  afternoon  that,  climbing  about  the  old 
sawmill,  he  slipped  and  hurt  his  foot.  Some  stones  in  the 
crumbling  walls  had  given  way,  and  when  he  picked  himself 
up  he  limped  with  a  screwed-up  face  to  the  burn  that  flowed 
from  under  the  ruin.  Joanna  was  there  in  the  boggy  field 
picking  marsh-mallows  and  some  reeds  to  make  a  rattle,  and 
Gerald  sat  down  on  the  bank  near  her.  Already  his  foot  was 
beginning  to  swell,  and  he  wanted  to  dip  it  in  the  water. 
Joanna  stood  beside  him  clutching  her  heavy-headed  yellow 
flowers,  and  the  beards  and  sharp  pofnts  of  the  reeds  tickled 
her  chin.  She  watched  the  young  man  take  off  his  shoe  with 
a  grimace,  and  peel  the  sock  from  the  bruised  ankle.  And  as 
he  rolled  back  the  gray  flannel  of  his  trousers  half  way  to  the 
knee  she  saw  with  a  pang  of  delicious  horror  that  his  leg  was 
hairy.  From  the  ankle  upwards  it  was  covered  with  black 
silky  hairs  that  clung  to  the  gleaming  skin. 

The  child's  first  thought,  that  her  cousin  was  the  victim 
of  some  terrible  blemish,  passed  almost  at  once.  There  could 
be  no  mistaking  his  unassumed  indifference.  So  in  a  moment 
she  knew  she  must  accept  this  strange  thing  as  normal.  Men 
— grown-up  young  men — were  like  this.  Later  on  she  often 
visualized  their  amazing  ankles  guiltily,  But  she  would  not  for 
the  world  have  spoken  of  her  discovery,  not  even  to  Georgie. 

VI 

Yet  another  incident  which  made  its  mark  on  the  still 
folded  woman  in  Joanna,  belonged  to  this  time  at  Duntarvie. 
And  like  the  ecstasy  by  the  upper  pond  it  happened  during 
the  Bannermans'  last  summer  there  when  the  girl  was  enter- 
ing her  teens. 

She  and  the  others — with  Mabel,  who  always  spent  July 
with  them — had  been  making  blaeberry  wine  down  in  front 
of  the  house  by  that  same  burn  which  further  on  flowed 
beneath  the  sawmHl.  It  was  late  afternoon  on  one  of  these 


34  OPEN   THE    DOOR 

endless  midsummer  days  of  childhood  in  the  North  when  the 
sun  puts  off  its  setting  till  long,  long  after  bed-time.  The 
children  had  been  up  on  the  moor  for  hours  past  with  mugs  and 
baskets,  picking  the  new-ripened  fruit  which  grows  so  fragrant 
and  near  the  ground,  its  leaves  showing  dapper  among  the 
heather.  Their  faces  and  hands,  their  bare  legs  and  under- 
clothes, were  stained  with  purple.  They  had  eaten  their 
fill,  and  had  rolled  afterwards  on  the  green,  richly  decked 
table  of  the  moor.  And  now  using  their  handkerchiefs  as 
strainers,  they  were  crushing  the  gathered  berries  till  the  dark 
juice  ran  through  into  jars  beneath.  Three  times  a  sounding 
call  had  come  from  the  house,  and  at  last  Georgie  and  Mabel 
lingeringly  climbed  the  bank  towards  the  road,  dragging  the 
small  boys  with  them. 

"  Come  on  to  supper,  Joanna,"  they  cried  over  their  shoul- 
ders in  their  young  high  voices,  as  they  came  to  the  rickety 
one-legged  gate  of  the  garden.  But  Joanna,  though  she  cried 
in  return  that  she  was  "  just  coming,"  made  no  movement  to 
follow  them. 

Instead  she  began  to  trail  her  dyed  handkerchief  in  the 
water,  startling  the  little  shadowy  trout  that  were  so  hard 
to  catch;  and  every  now  and  then  she  tossed  back  the  long 
loosened  strands  of  h.er  hair,  the  better  to  see  her  own  reflec- 
tion in  the  brown  mirror  of  the  stream.  Dreamily,  she  wished 
she  were  as  pretty  as  the  little  girl  in  the  water. 

But  a  shadow  passed,  blurring  the  magic,  and  Joanna 
looked  up  quickly  to  see  Alec  Peddie  standing  on  the  opposite 
bank.  Alec,  the  lad  from  the  nearest  farm,  was  a  handsome 
rascal  of  fifteen,  supple  as  an  Indian  and  almost  as  brown, 
with  a  skin  as  soft  as  the  corduroy  of  his  breeches.  He  often 
came  across  the  hill  to  help  with  odd  jobs  at  Duntarvie,  and 
in  a  sense  was  the  children's  playmate.  He  was  great  at 
birdnesting,  at  draining  ponds  and  damming  streams.  And 
in  the  Easter  orgies  of  whin-burning  he  was  the  acknowl- 
edged leader.  Himself  in  the  grip  of  a  curious  still  excite- 
ment, he  would  dare  the  others  to  jump  after  him  over  bigger 
and  bigger  bonfires;  and  Joanna  especially  would  fly  in  a 
frenzy  at  his  bidding  over  the  great  crackling  bushes,  her  eyes 
tight  shut,  her  hair  full  of  sparks  and  her  clothes  singeing 
amid  the  smoke.  Afterwards,  when  the  flames  had  died  down, 
they  would  all  rush  about  stamping  on  the  embers,  kicking  up 
fiery  spouts  with  their  scorched  shoes,  and  screaming  like  cur- 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  35 

lews  in  a  gale.  Only  when  the  fires  were  quite  out  and  black, 
would  a  certain  estrangement  in  their  relations  with  Alec  re- 
assert itself,  and  this  would  remain  more  or  less  until  Easter 
came  round  again.  He  was  useful  to  them,  and  in  a  way  they 
loved  him,  but  they  did  not  trust  him. 

As  he  stood  now  looking  across  at  Joanna  with  careless, 
glinting  eyes  that  were  the  color  of  the  water  below,  Alec 
showed  his  white  teeth  in  an  impudent  grin. 

"  Hullo,  Alec,"  said  the  girl,  shyly. 

In  reply  the  boy  jumped  over  to  her  side,  and  immediately 
helped  himself  royally  to  her  blaeberry  wine.  Then  unasked 
he  plunged  his  fingers  into  one  of  the  baskets  and  empurpled 
his  mouth  widely  with  a  great  handful  of  fruit.  "  You  look 
awful  bonny,  Jo!  "  he  said  thoughtfully  with  steady  eyes  on 
her,  and  again  he  crushed  a  mouthful  of  berries  against  his 
palate. 

It  was  the  first  time  Joanna  had  ever  been  called  pretty  to 
her  face.  She  was  moved,  and  did  not  know  what  to  say. 

"So  do  you!  "  she  countered,  bashfully;  and  at  this  Alec 
burst  into  a  ringing  appreciative  laugh. 

After  that  there  was  a  silence  between  them,  and  Joanna 
gathered  her  things  together  and  stood  up.  But  the  boy  put 
out  his  hand  hastily  and  touched  her  wet  arm.  He  was  look- 
ing at  her  oddly  when  she  glanced  into  his  eyes. 

"  If  ye'll  come  up  yonder  on  the  moor  wi'  me,  Joanna," 
he  said — rather  fearful  but  with  a  word  of  cajolery  in  his  rich 
voice — "  I'll  show  ye  what  lads  is  for." 

A  minute  later  she  entered  the  house  while  Alec  unabashed 
by  her  shy  denial  went  whistling  and  cutting  solitary  capers 
across  the  darkening  moor.  But  the  thrill  of  the  boy's  touch 
remained  with  the  girl,  and  the  shameless  young  pagan  look 
he  had  given  her  took  its  place  also  in  her  dreams. 


CHAPTER  III 


T7OR  in  town  Joanna  led  almost  wholly  a  dream  life.  The 
jT  indoor  existence,  the  hard  streets  which  she  hated  though 
they  made  a  good  playground,  the  petty  boredom  of  school, 
and  the  growing  disharmony  at  home,  all  drove  her  in  upon 
herself.  In  two  respects  only  was  the  child's  being  vivid — in 
the  activity  of  her  body,  and  in  her  dreams. 

At  twelve  she  was  a  reckless  rider — a  menace  to  foot- 
passengers — of  a  maimed  tricycle  horse  which  had  once  been 
dappled,  and  fiery  of  nostril.  And  when  nursery  shows  were 
got  up,  with  Sholto  as  "  Handy-Andy,"  and  Linnet  as  the 
performer  of  transparent  conjuring  tricks,  Joanna,  dressed  in 
tights  suspiciously  recalling  woven  underwear,  always  per- 
formed upon  the  trapeze. 

But  what  satitsfied  her  most  deeply  was  climbing.  Climb- 
ing involved  a  mental  and  physical  equilibrium  which  was 
a  delight.  She  welcomed  the  cool  excitement  that  possessed 
her  in  dangerous  places,  up  high  trees  and  on  the  windy 
edges  of  roofs.  She  learned  to  walk  steadily,  balancing  with 
her  arms  along  the  top  of  a  narrow  paling,  and  knew  how  to 
trust  only  half  her  weight  to  a  weak  foothold,  passing  in  a 
swift,  predetermined  rhythm  to  one  more  secure.  At  such 
moments  she  was  the  queen  of  her  own  body,  and  not  of 
her  body  alone,  but  of  a  whole  system  of  laws  she  could  not 
begin  to  formulate. 

Joanna,  however,  was  afraid  of  jumping.  She  always  felt 
terrified  of  a  jump  beforehand;  and  afterwards,  practice  as 
she  might,  it  jarred  her  painfully.  Often  when  her  com- 
panions had  leapt  unhesitatingly  one  after  another  from  the 
rather  high  back  garden  wall  at  Collessie  Street  into  the  stony 
lane  beyond,  she  had  to  stay  behind  for  long  minutes.  To 
have  sat  on  the  wall  and  scrambled  down  with  a  twist  would 
have  been  easy  enough.  But  this  the  child  would  not  do. 
And  she  always  jumped  in  the  end,  though  no  one  looked  on 
and  she  was  sick  with  fear.  Once  indeed  of  her  own  accord 

36 


OPENTHEDOOR  37 

she  set  herself  a  jump  that  was  mere  foolhardiness.  There 
was  a  legend  in  the  nursery  that  cousin  Gerald  had  jumped 
from  -the  parlor  window  across  the  area  at  the  back  of  the 
house — a  considerable  feat  even  for  a  young  man — and  the 
time  came  when  Joanna  got  it  into  her  head  that  she  must 
do  it  too.  It  was  weeks  before  she  could  bring  herself  to  the 
point,  and  often  she  would  stand  by  the  window  looking  at 
the  forbidding  stone  drop,  some  six  feet  wide  and  twelve  deep, 
which  separated  the  house  from  the  sloping  green  below. 
Then  one  day,  in  the  middle  of  the  Latin  lesson  at  school — 
a  lesson  through  which  Joanna  habitually  dreamed — it  came 
to  her  that  she  would  do  it  that  evening. 

When  she  got  home  she  went  straight  to  the  parlor.  It 
was  empty;  and  she  opened  the  window  and  quaking  climbed 
out  upon  the  sill.  Suppose  she  managed  the  jump,  but  did 
not  land  high  enough  on  the  slope?  That  would  mean  over- 
balancing into  the  awful  area,  and  suppose  she  slipped  on 
leaving  the  sill?  Her  palms,  wet  with  fear,  clove  to  the  pane 
behind  her.  She  had  a  prickling  agony  all  over  the  front  of 
her  body.  She  was  lost  if  she  jumped.  Yet  she  knew  she 
would  have  no  peace  till  she  did.  She  shut  her  eyes,  opened 
them  again,  leaned  back  for  impetus.  "  If  I  am  killed  it  can't 
be  helped!  "  was  the  thought  that  flashed  through  her  mind 
like  a  solution.  Why  had  she  not  thought  of  that  before? 
And  springing  with  all  her  strength  she  landed  on  her  hands 
and  knees  well  up  on  the  grass. 

It  had  been  easy  as  easy,  she  told  herself  when  she  picked 
herself  up.  But  she  was  shaking  all  over  as  she  went  up  the 
dark  kitchen  stair.  And  she  never  attempted  it  again. 


n 

As  a  dreamer,  the  child  was  of  that  sort  whose  imaginings 
are  never  without  some  touch  of  the  practical,  and  the  ma- 
terial and  the  ideal  often  went  curiously  linked.  One  night, 
not  long  after  her  thirteenth  birthday,  just  as  she  was  drop- 
ping off  to  sleep,  an  idea  flashed  in  her  mind  and  it  so  worked 
upon  her  that  she  lay  awake  for  hours.  Perhaps  it  had  been 
suggested  to  her  by  the  description  of  the  Tabernacle  which 
her  mother  had  been  reading  at  evening  prayers.  Anyhow  her 
notion  was  herself  to  build  a  temple  using  as  her  materials, 
candles  and  a  wooden  box.  She  thought  of  the  vistas  of 

445537 


38  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

pillars  this  temple  would  have — beautiful  white  pillars,  more 
beautiful  than  the  alabaster  ones  in  the  City  Chambers — rising 
out  of  a  floor  of  wax  which  was  to  be  scored  and  scored 
across  while  still  soft  to  make  it  like  a  marble  pavement. 
Tossing  from  side  to  side  on  her  bed,  she  wondered  whether 
the  pillars  should  be  left  plain,  or  fluted  by  an  excoriating 
finger  nail.  As  the  possibilities  of  her  design  grew  upon  her 
she  became  more  and  more  wakeful,  with  a  touch  of  fever. 
She  would  have,  she  determined,  a  tiny  Ark  of  the  Covenant 
made  from  a  wax-coated  match-box,  and  at  either  end,  guard- 
ing it,  she  would  put  the  two  little  stucco  angels  Aunt  Perdy 
had  brought  her  from  Italy.  She  would  gild  them;  and  a 
vision  floated  before  her  of  kneeling  cherubim  gleaming  be- 
tween aisles  of  flawless  marble — all  the  work  of  her  own  hands ! 

Next  morning  was  a  Saturday,  and  Joanna,  hardly  able 
to  bear  her  excitement,  ran  with  her  weekly  sixpence  down 
the  hill  to  the  grocer.  Though  he  gave  her  the  cheapest 
candles  to  be  had,  there  were  only  twelve  in  the  packet,  and 
they  looked  disappointingly  unlike  marble.  On  the  other 
hand  they  were  longer  than  she  had  expected.  And  forgetting 
for  the  moment  the  considerable  size  of  Aunt  Perdy's  angels, 
Joanna  thought  she  might  reduce  the  scale  of  the  Temple  by 
making  two  pillars  out  of  each  candle. 

When  she  got  back  to  the  house  breathless,  her  mother 
opened  the  door  to  her  and  could  not  help  noticing  her  bright 
countenance.  Questioned,  the  child  poured  forth  an  inco- 
herent tale  about  match-boxes,  marble  pillars  and  angels. 
Juley  did  not  attempt  to  follow  it.  She  only  comprehended 
an  unusual  excitement,  and  she  noticed  with  a  pang  that  at 
such  moments  her  daughter  bore  a  strong  likeness  to  poor 
Aunt  Perdy. 

"  Would  that  I  could  see  my  dear  child  as  much  concerned 
about  spiritual  things!  "  she  lamented  with  a  grieved  shake 
of  her  head. 

When  Joanna  set  to  work  upstairs  with  more  doggedness 
now  than  enthusiasm,  the  result  was  a  conflagration  which 
left  a  large  hole  in  the  nursery  carpet.  Then  and  there  the 
remaining  candles  were  confiscated  for  household  use.  But 
Juley,  always  scrupulous  in  money  matters,  gave  the  Temple- 
builder  as  many  pence  as  they  had  cost. 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  39 


in 

Even  during  Sholto's  life-time  there  had  hung  over  Juley's 
dressing-table  a  rival  text  to  the  one  in  the  lobby.  No  richly 
illuminated  scroll,  this,  but  a  simple  square  of  glossy,  maroon- 
colored  cardboard,  silver  edged,  and  showing  up  in  silver  let- 
ters the  words — 

TO  THE  JEW  FIRST. 

The  importance  of  the  Jews  had  been  a  subject  on  which 
Juley  and  her  husband  had  differed,  sometimes  painfully. 
Juley,  try  as  she  might — and  she  never  gave  up  trying — had 
not  been  able  to  convince  Sholto  that  God's  promises  in  the 
Prophets  had  been  particularly  to  .His  Chosen  People.  The 
curses,  Sholto  would  admit,  must  apply  to  Israel:  but  every- 
thing else  he  appropriated  to  himself  and  those  like-minded 
with  him.  Nor  would  he  admit  his  illogicality  in  the  matter. 
It  was  without  his  approval  therefore  that  his  wife  had  gone 
regularly  to  a  seedy  and  unpopular  Jewish  mission  on  the 
South  Side  of  the  river. 

Juley's  belief  was  that  the  scattered  nation  had  been  or- 
dained to  preach  the  gospel  in  all  parts  of  the  world,  thus 
hastening  the  return  of  Christ.  She  could  not  help  regarding 
the  most  unattractive  Hebrew,  as  a  second,  or  at  least  as  a 
third  cousin  of  her  Saviour.  And  the  lustrous-eyed  men  in 
greasy  clothes  who  had  cringed  before  Sholto,  expanded — 
sometimes  alarmingly — in  the  sunshine  of  his  widow's  frank 
sympathy.  More  and  more  often  they  were  to  be  seen  at 
her  table. 

As  for  Sholto's  attitude  with  regard  to  the  Second  Advent, 
Juley  had  found  it  still  more  puzzling.  As  an  evangelical, 
he  had  perforce  held  theoretically  correct  views  on  the  sub- 
ject. But  Juley  had  only  to  mention  what  to  her  was  the 
most  joyous  topic  of  the  Gospels  to  realize  that  he  considered 
the  actual  prospect  highly  inconvenient. 

In  this  as  in  the  Jewish  question  Sholto  had  had  the  dis- 
creet backing  of  his  minister  Dr.  Ranken,  and  Juley  had  come 
away  worsted  more  than  once  from  visiting  her  pastor  with  a 
request  that  he  would  lend  his  pulpit  to  one  of  her  Hebrew 
proteges.  But  Sholto  had  been  dead  over  a  year  before  the 
idea  of  leaving  St.  Jude's  occurred  seriously  to  her. 


40  OPEN    THE    DOOR 

It  was  a  bold  idea,  for  till  then  the  Bannermans'  church 
had  been  as  much  a  part  of  themselves  as  their  house.  Indeed 
it  was  more  deeply  connected  than  the  house  with  their  family 
tradition.  Their  grandfather  had  made  it  famous  among 
Glasgow  churches,  and  in  the  eyes  of  many  among  the  con- 
gregation their  father,  as  a  prominent  elder,  had  been  a  more 
important  figure  there  than  Dr.  Ranken  the  minister,  who 
had  begun  his  career  merely  as  the  great  Dr.  Bannerman's 
assistant. 

From  the  gallery,  whither  they  were  banished  four  times  a 
year  on  Communion  Sundays,  the  children  used  to  lean  for- 
ward with  awe  in  th,  'fr  hearts,  and  in  their  throats  a  choking 
sense  of  their  father's  dignity.  Sholto  always  led  the  other 
elders  in  their  solemn  progress  through  the  napkin-decked 
body  of  the  church  to  the  choir  rails.  And  there,  after  the 
grave  order  of  the  Scottish  service,  they  partook  of  the  broken 
bread  from  Dr.  Ranken's  thin  hands  before  they  dispensed 
it,  pew  by  pew,  to  the  waiting  congregation. 

The  children  of  course  had  all  been  baptized  at  these  same 
choir  rails.  They  were  known  individually  to  each  member, 
and  every  detail  of  the  building  was  as  familiar  to  them  as  the 
interior  of  their  nursery.  How  well  Joanna  knew  the  pattern 
of  the  colored,  diamond-shaped  panes  in  the  high  rectangular 
windows: — there  were  two  yellow  diamonds,  then  a  blue,  then 
two  more  yellow,  and  a  red  square  at  each  corner.  Then 
there  was  the  dark,  highly  varnished  pulpit  with  its  canopy 
of  mahogany  spires.  Often  she  had  half-hoped,  half-feared 
that  the  great  bristling  lid  would  fall  by  its  own  weight  on 
Dr.  Ranken,  extinguishing  him  in  the  middle  of  his  sermon 
like  a  jack-in-the-box.  Yet  it  remained  poised;  and  cer- 
tainly its  intricacies  provided  a  maze  in  which  a  child's  imagi- 
nation could  run  riot.  It  was  one  of  Joanna's  fantasies  to 
picture  herself  and  her  cousin  Gerald  (conveniently  reduced 
to  scale)  playing  a  madly  amorous,  yet  innocent  game  of  hide- 
and-seek  amid  the  wilds  of  this  Gothic  forest. 

But  a  period  of  changes  had  come  in  which  Sholto  was 
prime  mover,  and  the  canopy  had  been  done  away  with.  At 
the  same  time  offertory  bags  were  substituted  for  the  plates 
at  the  door,  a  paid  quartette  was  added  to  the  choir,  the  con- 
gregation was  requested  (with  very  partial  success)  to  join 
in  the  Lord's  Prayer,  and  the  whole  church  was  upholstered 
in  blue-gray  repp,  instead  of  in  crimson  as  formerly. 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  41 

Sholto  had  always  advocated  what  he  called  "  a  bright  serv- 
ice." "  The  only  way  to  keep  a  hold  on  our  young  people!  " 
he  would  say  breezily  in  the  face  of  conservatism.  Certainly, 
at  the  time  of  his  death  the  decoration  of  St.  Jude's  vied  with 
its  service  in  sprightliness.  With  its  white  and  pale  blue  paint, 
its  gilding,  and  its  palm  trees  in  niches,  it  resembled  a  Casino 
rather  than  a  church.  And  the  paid  vocalists  never  for  one 
moment  allowed  it  to  be  forgotten  that  they  were  paid.  A 
stranger  could  have  picked  them  out  as  they  stood  shoulder 
to  shoulder  in  the  van  of  the  choir — the  contralto  as  manful  and 
almost  as  mustachioed  as  the  bass — singing  the  praises  of 
God  right  into  the  faces  of  those  who  w  :e  fortunate  enough 
to  occupy  the  front  pews. 

The  only  thing  not  in  keeping  with  this  airy  spirit  of  reno- 
vation was  the  minister  himself.  Dr.  Ranken  was  bleak- 
faced,  with  hard-bitten  features,  and  a  smoldering  misery  in 
his  deep-set  eyes.  And  he  so  constantly  sought  his  text  in 
the  Pauline  Epistles  that  the  children  came  to  fancy  him  a 
reincarnation  of  the  Apostle.  Georgie  in  particular  conceived 
a  violent  dislike  toward  St.  Paul  in  the  person  of  Dr.  Ranken, 
and  within  six  months  of  her  father's  death  she  began  to 
wander  from  St.  Jude's  on  Sunday  evenings.  As  Juley  her- 
self paid  tentative  visits  to  other  places  of  worship  in  her 
search  for  some  richer  milk  of  the  Word,  she  could  not  well 
forbid  her  daughter,  but  when  Georgie  began  to  attend  openly 
the  church  of  Mr.  Nares — a  Congregational  pulpiteer  and 
strenuous  moralist  from  England  who  was  reputed  little  better 
than  a  Unitarian — things  were  serious.  Since  Dr.  Ranken 
had  refused  Juley's  request  that  he  would  preach  at  least  once 
a  year  on  the  Millennium,  she  had  not  felt  able  to  call  upon 
him  for  his  pastoral  advice.  She  longed  to  consult  him  about 
Georgie,  but  she  could  not  forget  the  manner  of  his  refusal,  nor 
the  way  he  had  looked  at  her,  making  her  feel  herself  peculiar. 
What  was  to  be  done? 

After  much  prayer  Juley  summoned  all  her  courage,  and 
once  more  visited  her  minister.  She  entered  the  dark  study 
feeling  painfully  shy  and  forsaken,  and  when  Dr.  Ranken 
rose  in  his  unsmiling  way  to  shake  her  by  the  hand  and  bid 
her  be  seated  she  was  smitten  by  a  keen  consciousness  of 
widowhood.  The  truth  was  that  shyness  was  his  own  afflic- 
tion. Juley  could  have  knelt  before  him,  covering  his  hands 
with  her  tears,  begging  his  counsel  in  her  many  difficulties, 


42  OPEN   THE    DOOR 

pouring  out  her  heart  to  him.  But  his  own  forbidding  reti- 
cence made  of  any  such  action  a  ludicrous  impossibility  ; 
so  she  sat  down  in  silence,  praying  within  herself  desperately 
that  she  might  be  given  the  strength  to  see  her  task  through. 
She  must  try  to  put  her  case  without  exposing  the  needs  of  her 
soul  in  any  way  that  he  would  shrink  from  as  undignified. 

So,  restraining  herself  and  in  an  agony  of  faltering,  she  told 
him  that  unless  he  could  give  her  and  her  children  greater 
spiritual  nourishment,  she  had  prayerfully  decided  to  leave 
St.  Jude's.  His  forbearance  when  she  had  said  her  say 
brought  her  nearer  to  breaking  down  than  ever.  No  one  knew 
better  than  she  what  it  meant  to  Dr.  Ranken  to  lose  the 
Bannerman  family  in  this  way,  yet  he  uttered  no  reproach. 
He  merely  said  she  must  do  as  she  felt  best,  advised  her  to 
send  Georgie  to  a  boarding-school,  and  expressed  a  hope  that 
at  least  his  family  and  hers  would  remain  on  friendly  terms. 
Bob,  his  fifteen-year-old  son,  was  a  constant  visitor  at  Collessie 
Street;  and  it  would  be  a  pity,  the  minister  said  with  a 
wintry  gleam  of  humor  crossing  his  face,  that  the  children 
should  cease  to  enjoy  each  other's  society  because  Mrs.  Ban- 
nerman could  not  conscientiously  enjoy  his  sermons! 

So  yellow-haired  Bob  Ranken  came  about  the  house  as  much 
as  before,  and  for  a  time  he  struck  up  quite  a  friendship  with 
Joanna.  But  Juley  became  subject  to  fits  of  depression  which 
no  wrestlings  of  the  spirit  seemed  to  avert  or  allay.  Indeed 
the  attacks  grew  denser  in  quality  and  longer  in  duration 
till  her  old  conviction  of  sin  in  marrying  became  almost 
abiding.  Her  children  suffered  seeing  their  mother's  increas- 
ing difficulties  in.  the  routine  of  life,  but  as  yet  they  did  not 
guess  at  the  depths  of  her  dejection  nor  at  her  heroism. 
Scrupulously  she  went  on  with  her  duties.  But  sometimes 
the  God  she  worshipped  appeared  less  like  the  Father  to  her 
than  like  the  stupendous  Tradesman  of  the  universe  Who  slowly 
renders  His  accounts. 

In  her  wanderings  from  church  to  church  she  sought  her 
ideal  pastor  in  vain.  Ministers  began  to  fight  shy  of  her,  and 
she  became  increasingly  nervous  of  them,  though  her  convic- 
tions never  wavered.  Her  severance  from  St.  Jude's  told 
both  on  her  and  on  the  children.  Church-going  became  spas- 
modic and  a  matter  for  individual  decision.  Sometimes  of  a 
Sunday  the  Bannermans  would  have  extra  long  family  prayers 
at  home  instead  of  going  to  any  outside  service;  and  as  likely 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  43 

as  not  a  Jew  from  the  South  Side  mission  would  officiate. 
But  Juley  never  felt  perfectly  easy  about  such  shifts.  The 
household  seemed  dishevelled.  Besides,  in  any  other  place 
of  worship  than  St.  Jude's  Sholto  Bannerman's  widow  found 
herself  a  nobody.  She  began  somehow  to  lose  caste  a  little, 
and  shrank  from  the  greetings  of  her  husband's  old  acquain- 
tances. As  time  went  on  she  would  once  in  a  while  steal 
in  on  a  Sunday  evening  to  the  very  back  of  Dr.  Ranken's 
gallery,  taking  all  precautions  to  avoid  observation.  And 
there  she  would  listen  to  his  arid  discourse  carefully  and 
with  tears,  to  know  whether  she  might  not  return  to  his  fold 
without  violating  her  conscience.  The  children  could  always 
tell  by  her  face  at  supper  when  she  had  been  to  St.  Jude's. 


CHAPTER  IV 


EACH  year  the  family  fell  farther  apart.  Shortly  after 
the  interview  with  Dr.  Ranken  Juley  took  his  advice, 
and  Georgie  was  sent  to  a  boarding-school  at  Bristol.  But 
though  the  school  was  only  decided  upon  after  much  prayer 
and  careful  inquiry,  the  girl  returned  for  her  holidays  less 
manageable  at  the  end  of  every  term.  Both  Juley's  daughters 
had  derived  from  her  in  full  force  the  capacity  for  ecstasy. 
But  she  seemed  powerless  to  direct  their  energies,  and  with 
increasing  grief  she  saw  her  prayers  apparently  unanswered. 
Her  faith  was  sorely  tried,  and  often  she  wept  in  secret. 
But  she  always  renewed  the  attack,  and  with  a  peculiar 
obstinacy,  maddening  to  them,  attempted  to  force  her  vision 
on  the  children.  Once  they  had  been.ready  to  drink  in  their 
mother's  words  as  the  essence  of  truth,  and  she  had  flashed 
veritable  heaven  at  her  babes  from  her  apocalyptic  eyes. 
Now  it  needed  all  her  courage  to  maintain  her  beliefs  in  the 
face  of  their  entrenched  hostility. 

Also  Juley  failed  them  socially,  and  the  girls  felt  this  more 
than  they  knew.  They  were  no  longer  invited  to  Aunt 
Georgina's.  Soon  they  hardly  went  anywhere.  Sholto's 
acquaintances  dropped  off  one  by  one,  and  most  of  Juley's 
"  friends  in  the  Lord  "  were  either  freakish  or  out  at  elbow; 
so  that  Joanna  came  to  think  that  Heaven  must  have  a 
predilection  for  ill-looking  oddities.  Some  of  them  turned  out 
to  lie  rogues  as  well.  One,  a  negro  revivalist  to  whom  Juley's 
efforts  had  opened  two  Glasgow  pulpits,  was  discovered  to  be 
a  bigamist  on  a  brilliant  scale.  Another,  a  Polish-American 
Jew  who  had  paid  long  visits  to  them  in  Collessie  Street,  and 
addressed  many  drawing-room  meetings  there,  absconded  with 
the  money  collected  for  the  establishment  of  a  Hebrew  Mis- 
sion-Church in  New  York.  Even  the  more  deserving  were 
feeble  creatures  in  any  earthly  sense,  and  Juley  herself  some- 
times mourned  the  days  of  her  youth  when  God's  people  made 
a  better  show  in  the  world  of  mammon.  She  never  put  down 

44 


OPENTHEDOOR  45 

the  change  to  her  own  growing  eccentricity.  Though  always 
perfectly  cleanly  and  careful  in  detail  she  was  dressing  her- 
self with  increasing  dowdiness,  and  she  sorely  grudged 
herself  a  new  garment.  Her  income  was  strained  by  the 
children's  growing  needs,  but  she  none  the  less  continued, 
as  Sholto  had  done,  to  set  aside  one-tenth  of  it  "  for  the  Lord," 
and  never  did  she  refuse  an  appeal  for  help,  whether  made  to 
her  purse,  her  time  or  her  strength.  She  was  loved  by  the 
poor.  But  Joanna  and  Georgie,  just  as  they  would  have 
given  all  the  spiritual  qualities  of  their  home  for  material 
graciousness,  would  gladly  have  exchanged  their  mother's 
unselfishness  for  dignity  and  tact. 

ii 

It  was  therefore  natural  that  both  the  girls  should  turn 
for  help  to  the  fine  arts.  It  was  a  misfortune  that  neither 
was  greatly  gifted,  but  Georgie  at  any  rate  had  no  hesitation 
in  accepting  her  own  enthusiasm  as  marked  talent  if  not  genius. 
The  only  thing  she  was  uncertain  about  was  the  field  in  which 
this  talent  was  to  have  play.  She  had  thought  of  writing, 
and  once  actually  started  a  novel  in  which  Mr.  Barr,  the 
organist  of  St.  Jude's,  with  whom  both  she  and  Joanna  were 
in  love,  was  to  be  saved  from  his  unfortunate  weakness  for 
the  bottle  by  a  heroine  remarkably  like  Georgie  herself  in 
everything  except  appearance.  But  in  the  second  chapter 
unexpected  difficulties  arose,  and  at  the  same  time  Georgie 
heard  Madame  Neruda  play  at  one  of  Sir  Charles  Halle's 
concerts.  From  that  day  the  girl  decided  that  music  was  her 
natural  means  of  expression,  and  the  violin  her  instrument. 
It  was  dreadful  to  think  how  much  time  she  had  already 
wasted  over  the  piano. 

So  Georgie  was  given  violin  lessons  at  the  school  in  Bristol, 
and  when  at  nineteen,  she  came  home  for  good,  she  wandered 
from  teacher  to  teacher  much  as  her  mother  wandered  from 
church  to  church.  Each  time  she  meditated  a  change  there 
were  the  best  reasons  for  condemning  her  present  instructor, 
and  before  very  long  it  came  to  this,  that  no  one  in  Glasgow 
could  give  her  precisely  what  she  needed.  There  was  a 
man  in  Dresden  .  .  .  she  was  certain  that  if  she  could  only 
go  to  Dresden.  .  .  . 

"  But  dear,  you  seemed  to  be  getting  on  so  nicely,"  Juley 
pleaded  when  Germany  was  first  mentioned.  "  Mrs.  Boyd  was 


46  OPEN    THE    DOOR 

charmed  with  the  way  you  played  Simple  Avett  the  other 
day  at  the  Canal  Boatmen's  P..S.A." 

"Mrs.  Boyd!  "  cried  Georgie  in  loud  scorn.  "What  does 
Mrs.  Boyd  know  about  music?  She  would  like  Simple  Aveu! 
And  that's  exactly  what  I'm  trying  to  tell  you.  Simple  Aveu 
is  the  kind  of  piece  Miss  Findlay  gives  to  all  her  pupils 
because  she  thinks  it  will  please  their  friends  to  hear  them 
play  it  in  the  drawing-room  at  night — betause  it's  tuney! 
Don't  you  see  that  if  I'm  ever  to  do  anything  with  my 
violin — anything  real — I  must  go  somewhere  where  they  take 
music  seriously?  " 

This  discussion — one  of  many — happened  one  Sunday  even- 
ing in  Spring.  Juley  and  her  daughters  were  returning  after 
church  from  a  walk  along  the  Great  Western  Road,  and  Joanna 
seeking  a  refuge  from  the  distress  by  her  side,  found  it  in 
the  beauty  of  the  world  about  her.  For  the  Great  Western 
Road  at  sunset  on  a  fine  Sunday  is  a  romantic  highway. 
Once  a  stranger  had  stopped  Joanna  there,  and  sweeping  off 
his  hat,  had  asked  in  broken  English  how  soon,  continuing 
westwards,  he  should  get  to  the  sea.  The  question,  though 
geographically  astonishing,  gave  some  expression  of  the  mag- 
nanimous charm  of  the  road.  Now  troops  of  church-goers, 
their  faces  illuminated  by  the  glow  on  the  horizon,  sauntered 
westwards;  and  others  with  their  faces  in  the  shadow  returned 
to  the  town.  Innumerable  couples — Highland  servants 
chattering  loudly  in  Gaelic,  strings  of  very  young  girls  in  their 
Sabbath  finery,  young  men  with  button-holes  and  whirling 
canes,  who  eyed  the  girls  as  they  passed — all  used  the  whole 
breadth  of  the  road  for  walking,  and  only  moved  aside  deli- 
berately to  make  way  for  a  jogging  Sunday  horse-car. 

Joanna  steeping  her  mind  in  vague  dreams  tried  not  to  hear 
what  Georgie  and  her  mother  were  saying.  But  the  argument 
continued  even  after  they  had  got  home  and  were  waiting 
in  the  parlor  for  supper.  Joanna's  silence  was  taken  for 
granted,  and  she  sat  by  the  window  looking  out.  She  still  tried 
not  to  listen  though  it  was  harder  indoors. 

"  But  you  said  only  the  other  day  dear,"  (it  was  the  pained 
yet  patient  mother's  voice  speaking),  "that  Miss  Findlay 
was  a  splendid  teacher  and  thought  so  highly  of  you.  Besides 
poor  thing,  you  know  her  circumstances  and  what  the  loss  of 
a  pupil  means  to  her,  quite  apart  from  the  hurt  to  her  feel- 
ings." 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  47 

From  the  window  now  Joanna  was  watching  two  pigeons, 
burnished  on  their  high  perch  by  the  hidden  sunset.  They 
sat  on  the  ledge  of  a  house  opposite,  one  motionless  as  a 
carved  bird,  the  other  making  his  toilet.  With  gentle  yet 
precise  movements  the  male  arranged  his  breast  and  back 
feathers,  unfolded,  folded,  and  refolded  his  wings;  and  when 
at  length  all  was  to  his  liking,  he  sidled  caressingly  up  to  his 
mate. 

"  Of  course,"  shouted  Georgie,  "  if  you  are  going  to  sacri- 
fice my  career  to  Charity!  " 

At  that  word,  as  at  a  signal,  both  pigeons  took  flight.  Joanna 
followed  their  swift  passage  across  the  clear  cube  of  sky,  then 
sighing  turned  to  face  the  dark  interior. 

m 

Georgie  had  her  way  and  went  to  Dresden.  The  photo- 
graphs of  Joachim  and  Neruda  vanished  from  the  bedroom 
mantel-piece.  The  motto,  "  Genius  consists  in  an  infinite 
capacity  for  taking  pains,"  which  had  been  pinned  up  also, 
went  along  with  them  in  Georgie's  trunk.  And  at  first  the 
family  felt  a  strange  blank  in  the  mornings,  no  longer  being 
awakened  by  the  thin  scrape  of  exercises  in  the  third  position. 

Though  Georgie  did  not  realize  it,  her  victory  was  due,  not 
so  much  to  her  own  forcefulness  as  to  her  mother's  desire  that 
she  should  be  provided  with  the  means  of  earning  her  own 
livelihood.  Secretly  Juley  disbelieved  in  Georgie's  dreams  of 
the  concert  platform.  But  if  the  girl  really  loved  music  she 
would  be  the  better  equipped  for  having  studied  abroad. 
Matrimony  in  Juley's  eyes,  was  not  a  thing  to  be  sought  for 
its  own  sake,  and  if  her  daughters  neither  married  nor  felt 
the  call  to  be  missionaries,  they  would  have  to  do  something 
for  themselves.  Sholto's  estate  when  divested  of  his  legacies 
to  charity,  had  not  amounted  to  more  than  £7,000;  and  when 
this  should  come  at  Juley's  death  to  be  divided,  equally  be- 
tween the  four  children,  the  portions  would  not  be  large. 

With  the  same  practical  end  in  view,  Joanna  was  allowed  to 
forsake  her  High  School  for  the  School  of  Art  when  she  was 
barely  seventeen,  and  not  yet  in  the  sixth  form.  For  some 
time  it  had  been  understood  at  home  that  Joanna  should  be- 
come an  artist.  She  was  neat  figured.  Her  mother  always 
counted  on  her  to  print  the  invitations  and  decorate  the  col- 
lection card  for  the  monthly  Jewish  meeting  held  in  the  draw- 


48  OPENTHEDOOR 

ing-room;  and  at  school  she  generally  carried  off  a  second 
prize  for  drawing.  What  sort  of  an  artist  she  wanted  to  be- 
come she  did  not  yet  know,  but  that  could  be  decided  later. 

Another  change  at  this  time  was  the  coming  of  Mabel  to 
Collessie  Street.  Mabel,  faced  even  more  urgently  than  her 
cousins  by  the  necessity  of  earning  a  living,  had  decided  to 
become  a  hospital  nurse;  and  before  starting  her  regular 
training  she  came  to  spend  a  winter  of  study  in  Glasgow. 

Juley  told  herself  that  this  was  a  happy  arrangement  for 
Joanna  during  Georgie's  absence.  The  two  boys,  now  four- 
teen and  twelve,  lived  apart  in  a  world  of  their  own.  School 
claimed  them  all  day,  and  lessons  most  of  the  evening;  and 
on  Saturdays  they  went  off  to  football,  returning  mud-coated, 
and  arguing  about  "  half-backs  "  and  "  scrums,"  "  fouls  " 
and  "  forwards.  "  But  in  reality  it  was  Juley  herself,  in 
dire  need  of  sympathy,  who  fastened  on  Mabel  when  she  came. 
Mabel  was  nothing  if  not  sympathetic,  and  her  aunt  poured 
into  her  ready  ears  much  that  had  better  have  remained  un- 
spoken, while  in  return  Mabel  imparted  many  of  the  confi- 
dences she  had  at  various  times  received  from  Georgie  and 
Joanna.  Juley,  already  admiring  her  niece's  choice  of  a  pro- 
fession, was  impressed  by  a  maturity  in  the  girl  quite  lacking 
in  her  own  daughters.  She  attributed  it  to  the  fact  that 
Mabel  was  an  orphan,  and  she  rejoiced  in  the  good  influence 
Mabel  was  bound  to  exercise  over  Joanna,  whose  bed-room 
she  was  to  share. 

iv. 

The  remarkable  thing  was  that  Joanna,  receptive  as  she 
was  at  this  time,  remained  immune  to  this  same  influence. 
Seven  years  earlier  both  she  and  Georgie  had  taken  a  passive 
pleasure  in  Mabel's  fertile  invention  in  the  field  of  childish 
indecencies:  but  in  their  later  girlhood  they  had  provided 
a  disappointing  market  for  her  primitive  antidotes.  Georgie 
in  fact  had  warned  her  sister  that  there  were  others  like  their 
cousin  at  the  school  in  Bristol,  and  that  all  that  kind  of  thing 
was  detestable  as  one  grew  older.  And  now  Mabel  at  nine- 
teen, returning  to  the  charge  with  a  smattering  of  physiology, 
a  great  store  of  bald  tales,  and  some  grotesque  confidences 
of  the  hospital,  found  Joanna  unresponsive. 

It  was  not  that  Joanna  made  any  prudish  objections.  In  a 
sense  she  even  listened.  But  while  she  continued  as  in  child- 


OPENTHEDOOR  49 

hood  to  hoard  the  correct  and  incorrect  together  in  the 
dark  chambers  of  her  mind  she  by  nature  ignored  all  that 
made  the  telling  savory  to  Mabel.  If  she  was  still  amazingly 
ignorant  about  life  it  was  not  exactly  from  lack  of  informa- 
tion. At  Duntarvie  she  had  been  in  close  touch  with  nature. 
In  Glasgow  she  had  been  allowed  to  play  in  the  streets.  Juley 
was  no  believer  in  ignorance  for  young  people.  She  had  even 
approached  Joanna  once  or  twice  with  an  attempt  at  definite 
enlightenment.  But  Joanna  had  shied  so  badly  and  so  per- 
sistently that  at  length  she  was  left  to  herself.  She  would 
not  have  it  that  her  very  considerable  knowledge  of  natural 
processes  should  in  any  real  way  affect  the  love-fantasy  in 
which  she  now  had  her  being.  Constantly  and  to  the  full 
she  indulged  herself  in  the  drug-habit  of  maidenhood;  but  her 
waking  dreams  were  quite  as  innocent  as  they  were  sensuous. 
What  she  learned  from  Mabel  therefore  was  kept  jealously 
shrouded.  It  was  no  more  true  to  her  than  it  was  true 
that  members  of  the  Young  Men's  Christian  Association,  be- 
cause they  were  men,  were  potential  lovers. 

Yet  all  the  time  a  lover  was  what  she  unceasingly  sought. 
In  the  streets,  at  church,  on  tram-cars  and  steamers,  at  con- 
certs, even  at  religious  meetings,  Joanna  was  for  ever  seeking 
faces  that  would  suit  the  hero's  part  in  those  dreams  of  which 
the  constant  heroine  was  herself.  In  any  kind  of  assemblage 
there  was  sure  to  be  one  such  face  at  least,  and  when  she  had 
found  it  she  knew  a  dozen  ways  by  which  to  induce  immediate 
delirium.  She  need  only,  for  instance,  recall  with  closed  eyes 
a  moonlight  cruise  on  the  Clyde  the  midsummer  before.  The 
paddle  steamer  loaded  with  embracing  lovers  had  churned 
phosphorescently  through  the  black  lochs.  The  band  had 
played  dance  music.  At  intervals  the  spray  of  fainting  rockets 
had  been  shaken  down  the  dark  sky. 

No  one  seeing  her  aloof  eyes  and  still  face  would  have 
guessed  at  the  eagerness  of  the  girl's  search.  Young  men 
feared  her,  knowing  she  hardly  saw  them.  Yet  at  eighteen,  a 
little  weary  of  fruitless  emotion,  a  little  dream-sick,  the  con- 
viction had  begun  to  force  itself  on  Joanna  that  she  was 
without  attraction.  For  the  past  ten  years  she  had  lavished 
unreciprocated  passion  on  individuals  of  both  sexes.  She 
had  worshipped  Gerald  Bird,  had  longed  to  reclaim  the  booz- 
ing organist  of  St.  Jude's,  had  trembled  in  the  presence  of 
her  geography  teacher  at  the  High  School — a  plain,  middle- 


5o  OPEN   THE    DOOR 

aged  woman  with  mysterious  eyes.  And  these  were  but  three 
out  of  many.  But  never  yet,  so  far  as  Joanna  knew,  had  she 
figured  for  an  instant  in  the  dreams  of  another  human  being, 
and  she  was  beginning  to  give  up  hope.  Clearly  she  foresaw 
a  dismal  stretch  of  life  to  an  unloved  old  age. 


CHAPTER  V 


TWO  years  passed  in  this  way;  and  when  Joanna  was 
twenty  and  full  of  desperation,  she  heard  that  Bob 
Ranken  was  coming  to  Glasgow  for  his  Easter  holiday. 

She  had  been  seventeen  the  last  time  she  saw  her  old  play- 
mate, he  eighteen.  Two  years  after  his  interview  with  Juley, 
Doctor  Ranken 's  health  had  begun  to  fail;  and  after  strug- 
gling on  gallantly  for  a  while  with  a  "  colleague  and  succes- 
sor," he  had  retired  as  "  minister  emeritus "  to  Tunbridge 
Wells,  where  he  had  a  married  sister.  He  himself  had  been 
long  a  widower.  He  had  hoped  rather  than  suggested  that 
Bob  should  enter  the  ministry.  But  the  boy  was  set  on  being 
a  mining  engineer,  and  on  leaving  school  went  to  South  Ken- 
sington to  study  at  the  School  of  Mines. 

Thenceforward  his  visits  to  Glasgow  had  been  rare.  But 
on  the  Easter  immediately  following  Joanna's  twentieth  birth- 
day Dr.  Ranken  was  sent  to  Bad  Nauheim  and  Bob  came  to 
stay  with  one  of  the  oldest  families  of  the  St.  Jude's  con- 
gregation, the  Boyds  of  High  Kelvin  Place. 

From  the  moment  Joanna  heard  from  Mamie  Boyd  that 
Bob  was  expected,  her  imagination  busied  itself  with  the 
coming  meeting.  In  her  condition  any  excitement  was  wel- 
come. But  most  welcome  of  all  was  an  excitement  that 
promised  to  bring  nearer  to  her  that  great  and  solid  world, 
in  the  existence  of  which  she  believed  as  only  your  dreamer 
can  believe. 

Would  Bob  be  much  changed?  she  wondered.  And  gazing 
into  her  mirror  she  tried  to  see  herself  with  his  eyes.  Would 
he  tease  her  about  her  long  skirts  and  her  hair  done  up? 
(She  wore  it  in  a  fine  shining  knob  now  on  the  top  of  her  head). 
It  was  wonderful  how  suddenly  her  lassitude  gave  place  to 
gaiety. 

She  recalled  the  little  constraint  that  had  arisen  between 
Bob  and  herself  during  his  last  school  holidays  in  Glasgow. 

5i 


52  OPENTHEDOOR 

How  clearly  she  was  able  to  re-live  it!  They  had  started 
romping,  as  in  the  old  childish  days;  but  Bob's  touch  on  her 
had  brought  a  giddiness.  He  had  tried  to  snatch  a  sketch- 
book from  her;  and  she,  half  pretending,  half  really  shy  of 
letting  him  see  her  drawings,  had  fought  to  keep  it.  They 
had  wrestled  for  it — Bob  grunting  with  laughter  when  in  the 
tussle  they  upset  a  small  table  covered  with  books — until 
he  got  her  pinned  against  the  wall  and  she  had  to  own  herself 
beaten.  A  tremble  of  pleasure  went  through  her  now  at  the 
feeling  of  his  yellow  tousled  head,  so  near  to  hers  as  it  had  been, 
and  his  red,  laughing,  triumphant  face.  There  had  come  a 
sudden  steadiness  into  his  blue  eyes,  as  if  he  had  observed 
something  new  in  her  or  in  himself.  Then  his  eyelids  with 
their  pale  lashes  like  veils,  had  drooped,  and  he  had  let  her 
arms  go.  She  had  felt  like  water  that  runs  swiftly  over  an 
edge  of  rock,  that  shivers  in  mid-air  before  falling  in  a  shaken 
dazzle  of  delight  down  into  nothingness. 

And  now  she  was  to  see  him  again. 

On  the  evening  he  was  expected,  she  spent  a  long  time  over 
her  dressing.  She  took  a  hot  bath — everything  must  be 
perfect  : — and  though  it  was  only  Wednesday,  she  put  on 
every  stitch  clean.  She  hoped  Bob  would  not  think  her  dress 
too  odd.  She  had  designed  and  made  it  herself  at  the  School 
of  Art,  and  it  was  of  thin  crinkly  apple-green  silk  quite  un- 
trimmed.  She  could  not  help  feeling  elated  when  she  ran 
into  her  mother's  room  to  see  herself  in  the  long  wardrobe 
glass.  She  felt  sure  the  narrow  apple-green  ribbon  looked 
well  round  her  hair,  but  it  was  a  trial  that  her  cheeks  became 
so  easily  scarlet.  She  was  thankful  Mabel  was  not  to  be 
in  that  night.  And  the  boys  had  gone  to  Aunt  Ellen  for 
Easter.  There  would  only  be  her  mother. 

While  still  in  her  mother's  room  Joanna  heard  the  door- 
bell ring,  and  she  listened  throbbing  while  the  visitor  hung 
up  his  hat  and  crossed  the  tiled  lobby  to  the  parlor  at  the 
back  of  the  house.  How  was  she  to  go  down — to  enter  the 
room? 

But  after  all  it  was  astonishingly  easy!  And  when  they 
had  shaken  hands  firmly  and  were  talking  hard,  she  asked 
herself  what  she  had  been  afraid  of.  It  was  like  the  jump 
out  of  the  parlor  window  long  ago — the  same  relief,  the  same 
slight  trembling  afterwards.  Bob's  hair  wasn't  so  yellow  as 
it  used  to  be.  In  this  light  it  was  the  color  of  ashes.  His 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  53 

voice  was  the  same  though  soft,  almost  lazy.  And  he  still 
grunted  funnily  when  he  laughed.  His  eyes — Joanna  could 
not  bring  herself  to  look  at  his  eyes  after  the  first  encounter. 
She  looked  instead  at  his  hair,  at  her  own  hands,  at  the  fern- 
case  by  the  window,  in  which  her  mother  cherished  delicate 
little  plants.  And  she  heard  herself  chattering  freely  about 
the  School  of  Art,  and  asking  Bob  all  about  London. 

But  in  the  depths  of  her  confused  heart  she  knew  it  was  not 
like  old  times,  however  hard  both  might  pretend  it  was.  At 
the  very  first  glance  something  must  have  happened  between 
them.  Otherwise  why  could  she  not  look  at  Bob?  And  why 
did  he  never  for  a  moment  stop  looking  at  her?  She  wondered 
at  herself  for  having  imagined  he  would  laugh  at  her  for 
being  grown-up.  She  could  not  now  have  asked  him  what 
he  thought  of  her  hair.  She  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  new 
self  in  his  eyes,  and  under  her  chatter  she  felt  lost  and 
troubled.  But  it  was  a  sort  of  happiness  too,  this  breaking 
of  the  life  in  her  out  of  the  old  confines. 

At  tea  the  mother's  presence  was  a  respite.  Joanna  was 
like  a  child  again,  hiding  in  her  mother's  skirts  and  peeping  out 
from  that  refuge  at  the  too  persistent  stranger.  She  tried 
hard  to  collect  herself.  If  Bob  would  have  spared  her  only 
for  one  minute.  But  then  all  of  a  sudden  her  lips  curved  into 
a  smile,  and  from  that  moment  she  smiled  uncontrollably. 
She  would  have  given  anything  to  hide  her  burning,  smiling 
face.  There  was  panic  in  her  breast.  And  to  recover  gravity 
she  tried  to  think  of  the  saddest  thing  she  knew.  She  thought 
of  the  Crown  of  Thorns.  But  is  was  useless,  especially  when 
Juley  was  questioning  Bob  about  the  Presbyterian  churches 
in  London.  Only  when  she  looked  up  and  found  herself  in 
Bob's  waiting  eyes  did  Joanna  stop  smiling,  and  then  her 
breath  went  from  her. 

And  after  tea  came  prayers.  Prayers  at  Collessie  Street  took 
place  without  respect  of  visitors,  and  generally  Joanna  re- 
sented this  with  bitter  ennui.  But  to-night  everything  was 
different.  She  did  not  know  what  she  looked  for  in  the  com- 
ing act  of  worship,  but  she  felt  it  held  something  hidden  for 
Bob  and  herself.  Till  then  they  would  both  be  in  sus- 
pense. 

When  the  servants  had  come  upstairs  and  were  in  their 
places  near  the  door,  Juley  opened  her  Bible  on  the  half- 
cleared  tea-table,  and  with  a  short  prayer  that  God  would 


54  OPEN    THE    DOOR 

not  let  His  Word  return  to  Him  void,  she  began  to  read  the 
passage  for  that  evening. 

Joanna,  with  her  spreading  apple-green  skirts  crinkled  as 
petals  that  are  folded  in  a  poppy  bud,  sat  very  still  on  the 
worn  leather  sofa,  and  Bob  in  an  armchair  faced  her  across 
the  hearthrug.  She  seemed  to  him  like  an  early  spring  flower, 
and  his  eyes,  young  and  disturbed,  never  left  her.  As  for 
Joanna,  though  she  gazed  steadfastly  aside  at  the  crumbling 
coals,  the  young  man's  presence  was  putting  a  spell  upon  her. 
The  space  between  them  vibrated  unceasingly,  and  there  was 
magic  for  both  of  them  in  the  familiar,  unheeded  poetry  the 
Mother  was  reading. 

Even  Juley's  interpolations  as  she  read  the  Bible  had  no 
power  this  evening  to  irritate  her  daughter;  and  as  if  know- 
ing this,  she  lingered  to  her  heart's  content  on  the  precious 
phrases,  explaining  them  to  the  servants,  and  drawing  the 
sweetness  from  each  word  before  she  passed  on.  Poor  Juley! 
After  a  day  of  small  desperations  she  now  came  to  refresh  her- 
self at  God's  footstool  with  an  eagerness  that  made  her  quite 
blind  to  what  was  passing  beside  her.  Half  an  hour  hence 
she  would  be  staggering  once  more  under  her  burden;  but 
for  this  blessed  space  she  was  laying  it  aside  with  deep-drawn 
sighs  of  content. 

"  May  God  bless  to  us  His  Holy  Word.  Let  us 
pray!  " 

At  this  signal  the  servants  rustled  starchily  from  their 
seats  and  Joanna  and  Bob  stood  up.  It  was  the  moment, 
Joanna  then  knew,  for  which  they  had  both  been  waiting. 
As  her  mother  and  the  servants  knelt  before  their  chairs, 
she  raised  at  last  her  full  eyelids,  and  with  his  whole  being 
Bob  held  her  glance.  It  was  only  an  instant  that  they  stood 
thus,  but  to  Joanna  it  seemed  an  age.  Then  Bob  crossed  to 
her  side,  and  trembling  they  knelt  down  together  at  the 
sofa. 

As  soon  as  they  knew  by  the  modulations  of  her  voice  that 
Juley's  prayer  was  in  full  flight  heavenwards,  the  boy  and  girl, 
so  far  as  they  could  for  nervousness,  began  to  look  into  their 
new  situation.  In  her  own  agitation  Joanna  made  no  allow- 
ance for  Bob's,  but  his  was  the  greater.  She  felt  rather  than 
saw  that  his  right  hand  lay  palm  upwards  close  by  her  left 
elbow  on  the  rubbed  leather  sofa.  It  lay  waiting  there  dumb 
and  humble  for  hers.  She  was  thrilled  by  this,  but  at  the  same 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  55 

time  a  little  spasm  of  disappointment  passed  through  her. 
Why  could  not  Bob  take  her  hand  simply,  boldly?  Was 
it  not  the  man's  part?  Here  was  she,  ready  at  a  touch  to 
give  all  that  could  be  asked  for. 

But  swiftly  that  moment  passed.  After  all,  this  was  Bob's 
way  of  asking,  and  she  had  never  been  asked  before.  Besides, 
though  she  did  not  guess  at  his  shy  terror,  Joanna  could 
read  aright  the  urgency  of  his  desire.  The  knowledge  of 
this  set  an  abrupt  flame  leaping  in  her.  She  became  wooer  as 
well  as  wooed.  With  averted  face,  and  eyes  obstinately  closed, 
she  shifted  her  weight  wholly  on  to  her  right  elbow,  and  her 
left  hand,  released,  slid  down  and  laid  itself  on  the  patient 
hand  beneath.  Timidly  she  gave  herself,  yet  with  fullness, 
palm  to  palm.  And  Bob  clasped  her  in  a  rapture  of  gratitude. 
With  his  first  touch  she  was  flooded  with  happiness.  But  at 
his  kiss  she  became  dreadfully  conscious  of  her  knuckles  which 
she  felt  must  stick  out  hard  against  his  lips.  If  only  she  had 
hands  like  Georgie's,  with  soft  dimples  instead  of  knuckles! 
How  she  wished  to  be  perfect  for  him! 

n 

After  all  she  had  only  a  few  minutes  alone  with  Bob  before 
he  left  the  house  an  hour  later,  and  even  then  they  were 
not  secure  from  interruption.  Hardly  had  they  risen  from 
their  knees,  when  Mabel  came  into  the  parlor;  and  though 
Joanna  tried  afterwards  she  could  never  recollect  her  cousin's 
excuse  for  this  unexpectedly  early  return.  All  she  could  recall 
was  the  picture  of  Mabel  looking  up  at  Bob  with  her  coy,  cur- 
iously liquid  gaze  from  under  the  brim  of  her  hat  as  she  took  it 
off.  But  Bob  had  no  eyes  that  evening  for  anyone  but  Joanna, 
and  after  some  talk  suddenly,  as  if  he  had  that  moment  re- 
membered something,  he  said  he  must  be  off. 

Joanna  went  with  him  to  the  lobby  and  stood  watching  his 
rather  blundering  actions  at  the  hat  stand.  In  his  acute  self- 
consciousness  he  fumbled  like  a  blind  man.  The  two  did 
not  speak  for  a  few  minutes,  partly  from  shyness,  partly  be- 
cause Mabel  had  only  just  disappeared  round  the  bend  of 
the  staircase,  leaving  the  parlor  where  Juley  still  was,  with 
the  door  open. 

But  to  Joanna's  delight  Bob  in  a  low  voice  began  talking 
to  her  in  Double  Dutch.  That  she  herself,  or  Georgie,  or  the 
boys  should  ever  forget  their  old  secret  language  was  of  course 


56  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

unimaginable.  Yet  she  had  not  dreamed  that  Bob  would 
remember  it — Bob  a  grown  man  who  had  gone  out  into  the 
world!  Joanna  loved  him  for  it,  and  she  blushed  at  him, 
bright  with  grateful  surprise. 

"  Joey,"  he  whispered  as  he  tugged  on  his  waterproof. 
"  Can't  you  come  out  for  a  minute?  " 

"  111  try,"  breathed  Joanna  in  return,  and  she  wondered 
at  her  calmness,  making  this  her  first  appointment  with  a 
lover. 

"  I'll  wait  at  the  corner  of  Burns  Street  where  we  used 
to  play  peever,"  said  Bob.  "  How  long  will  you  be?  " 

"  I'll  come  as  quick  as  I  can." 

"  I'll  wait  half  an  hour.    Promise  you'll  come!  " 

"  111  come  within  ten  minutes." 

"  All  right.    But  remember  I'll  wait  half  an  hour." 

She  opened  the  door  and  he  went  out.  They  had  not  touched 
each  other  since  they  knelt  at  the  sofa.  They  were  waiting. 

Joanna  shut  the  door,  and  for  a  moment  stood  suspended, 
uncertain.  Her  pulses  raced  and  her  brain  was  working 
swiftly.  She  was  afraid  to  follow  Bob  at  once.  From  the 
outside  the  front  door  could  only  be  shut  with  a  bang,  and  she 
knew  her  mother  would  run  out  at  the  sound,  and  standing 
on  the  steps  would  call  to  ask  her  where  she  was  going.  That, 
she  could  not  have  borne.  But  she  feared- still  more  to  go 
into  the  parlor  or  upstairs,  lest  her  return  to  the  lobby  should 
be  somehow  prevented.  So  she  hovered  in  the  dim  hall, 
resting  on  tiptoe  ready  for  flight.  She  listened  with  sharp- 
ened hearing  to  the  sounds  in  the  house.  She  ought  to  go 
and  change  her  thin  slippers,  but  Mabel  was  still  in  the  bed- 
room. Joanna  could  hear  her  moving,  though  she  was  two 
floors  distant.  Scarcely  half  a  minute  had  passed,  but  in 
despair  she  was  sure  Bob  must  be  tired  of  waiting.  He  would 
be  gone.  He  would  think  she  didn't  care.  It  was  terrible. 

Half  frantic,  she  pulled  on  the  blue  woollen  tammy  which 
was  on  the  hat  stand  and  threw  a  short  old  tweed  cape  round 
her  shoulders.  Then  passing  the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  and 
slipping  quiet  as  a  shadow  down  the  long,  tiled  passage,  she 
looked  into  the  parlor. 

Juley  was  there,  standing  burdened  by  the  table.  With 
one  uncomfortable  hand  she  clutched  some  little  flower- 
glasses  which  needed  fresh  water,  with  the  other  she  held  up 
a  newspaper.  Something  on  the  printed  page  had  caught  her 


OPENTHEDOOR  57 

eye  just  as  she  was  leaving  the  room,  but  not  for  the  world 
would  she  relinquish  duty  for  enjoyment.  It  was  like  her 
thus  to  tax  self-indulgence  with  physical  discomfort. 

"  Mother,  I'm  running  to  the  post.  I'll  be  back  in  a  min- 
ute,"— Joanna  rattled  out  the  old,  old  formula  in  a  colorless 
voice,  and  was  off,  not  waiting  for  an  answer.  Before  her 
mother  had  taken  in  her  words,  she  had  fled  the  house.  She 
went  the  length  of  Collessie  Street  like  the  wind.  Then  feel- 
ing safe  she  made  her  way  more  slowly  towards  the  place 
where  Bob  would  be  waiting.. 


m 

Some  clock  was  striking  the  last  strokes  of  eight,  but  dark 
had  scarcely  fallen.  It  had  been  a  wet  afternoon,  and  though 
the  streets  were  drying  rapidly  now  under  a  sounding  wind, 
they  still  held  pearly  reflections  of  the  pale,  torn  sky.  Where 
the  moisture  stayed  in  shallow  pools,  it  was  like  the  high 
light  on  round  white  pearls,  where  the  shadows  of  the  tall 
houses  congregated  it  was  like  gray  and  black  pearl.  Soft 
clouds,  gray  as  doves,  drove  slowly  across  the  luminous  sky. 
The  universe  was  washed  clear  of  color,  and  the  world 
through  which  Joanna  sped  light-footed,  might  have  been  one 
of  those  dim  pictures  in  which  children  take  delight — pictures 
that  lie  scattered  by  the  thousand  on  the  sea-shore,  and  are 
so  cunningly  painted  on  the  pearly  inward  of  each  deserted 
shell. 

And  though  along  *he  whole  vista  of  dark  stone  street  there 
was  no  tree,  the  emergency  of  spring  made  itself  felt  as  surely 
as  in  any  country  woodland.  Certainly  the  young  woman  in 
each  pulse  and  duct  and  pore  of  her  body  was  alive  to  the 
season's  clamor.  She  was  unfurled  like  a  flag  to  the  wind  of 
spring.  For  the  first  time  since  she  had  lain  by  the  margin 
of  the  upper  pond  at  Duntarvie,  she  found  herself  able  to 
look  full  upon  beauty  without  grieving.  In  the  interval  there 
had  always  been  a  discord  between  herself  and  her  apprehen- 
sion of  beauty  outside  herself.  Sunsets,  the  faces  of  flowers, 
the  evening  star  raised  steadily  like  a  torch  above  a  screen  of 
cloud — these  had  been  hardly  endurable,  always  lacking  the 
consummation  they  called  for.  But  to-night  she  felt  at  one 
with  the  whole  earth's  loveliness,  for  she  was  desired,  and  her 
lover  awaited  her  coming. 


58  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

At  the  appointed  corner  Bob  in  his  shabby  waterproof 
moved  to  meet  her. 

"  Let's  go  down  there,  shall  we?  "  he  suggested.  And 
with  a  nervous  movement  of  his  chin  he  indicated  the  hill  that 
plunged  downwards  on  their  right.  There  was  no  one  else 
in  the  quiet  street  but  a  lamp-lighter  who  scurried  on  in  front 
of  them,  lighting  the  yellow  lamps  one  after  another,  till  he 
turned  a  corner;  and  with  the  coming  to  life  of  the  lamps, 
as  by  a  miracle  the  world  was  flooded  with  transparent, 
wonderful  blue.  "  Now  " — thought  Joanna,  as  they  reached 
one  of  the  flights  of  stone  steps  which  in  places  eased  the  steep- 
ness of  the  hill, — "  Now  he  will  tell  me  he  loves  me."  Surely 
the  moment  had  come — the  moment  for  which  all  her  life  she 
had  been  waiting. 

When  they  were  gone  down  the  first  flight,  Bob  jerked  out 
his  arm  and  just  touched  the  back  of  her  cape.  It  was  as  if 
he  meant  to  enfold  her.  But  instead,  losing  courage  he 
dropped  his  hand  and  took  hers,  pressing  it  with  an  abrupt 
terrified  action  against  him.  With  the  back  of  her  fingers 
Joanna  could  feel  the  hard  outer  muscles  of  his  thigh  through 
his  waterproof.  Thus  joined  they  went  on  more  slowly  across 
the  paved  landing  to  the  top  of  the  next  flight. 

"  Joey,  do  you  really  care?  "  he  whispered. 

This  was  something  altogether  different  from  her  imagin- 
ings, but  not  for  anything  would  Joanna  let  Bob  think  she 
judged  him.  Besides  there  was  an  appeal  in  his  muffled 
voice  and  in  his  dimly  seen  face  which  moved  her. 

"  Yes,"  she  returned  in  small,  bereft  tones.  "  Of  course 
I  do."  Then  fearing  this  might  be  the  wrong  answer,  she 
added,  "  If  I  didn't,  I  shouldn't  let  you  hold  my  hand." 
And  she  gave  him  a  timid  beseeching  look. 

Bob  stopped,  glancing  swiftly  up  and  down  the  steps. 
Still  never  a  soul !  Far,  far  below  was  the  foggy  incandescent 
track  of  the  New  City  Road,  with  its  crowds,  its  passing  cars 
full  of  light,  and  its  sordid  glare  of  shop  windows  made  beauti- 
ful by  distance.  But  up  here  the  two  of  them  clinging  to- 
gether in  the  dark  blue  middle  air,  seemed  suspended  on  a 
ladder  between  earth  and  sky,  a  frail  ladder  that  was  shaken 
by  the  travelling  wind. 

"Will  you  kiss  me — just  once!  "  he  pleaded  drooping  his 
head  towards  her. 

This  again  was  not  of  the  pattern  of  Joanna's  dreams.    Had 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  59 

she  been  all  wrong  about  love?  Well,  if  she  had,  it  was  her 
fault,  not  love's.  She  must  still  believe,  and  follow  where 
love  led.  So  she  turned  her  obedient  face  Jo  Bob,  and  he 
bent  shyly  down  to  her.  He  was  completely  surprised  by 
the  rich  surrender  of  her  lips,  she  no  less  amazed  by  the  bash- 
fulness  of  his. 

"  Is  this  the  first  time  anyone  has  kissed  you?  "  The 
question  slipped  instinctively,  jealously  from  him. 

The  girl's  heart  leapt  in  response  to  that.  "  Yes,"  she 
replied  with  joyous  truthfulness.  "  The  very  first  time." 

"  I'm  glad,"  he  said. 

In  the  little  pause  that  followed,  Joanna  felt  that  it  was  her 
turn.  "  Is  it  the  first  time  you  have  kissed  anyone?  "  she 
asked,  ignoring  as  he  had  done,  the  fact  that  all  the  virility 
of  their  first  intimate  touch  had  been  on  her  side. 

"  It  isn't  the  same  for  a  man,"  Bob  told  her,  and  a  smile 
flickered  across  his  face. 

"  You  mean  you  have?  "  Joanna  was  intent.  And  her 
real  unconscious  hope  was  that  he  had  kissed  many 
women. 

"  Only  once,  and  it  was  not  like  this  at  all.  It  didn't 
count  really." 

Joanna  was  silent  for  a  moment.  She  tried  to  feel  disap- 
pointment that  she  was  not  the  first. 

"  But  now  you'll  never  kiss  anybody  else,"  she  exacted, 
"  Never,  never  again!  " 

"  I  shan't  want  to,"  Bob  assured  her. 

"  No,  but  promise!  " 

"  I  promise.    There!    And  now  kiss  me  again." 

"  You  kiss  me  this  time,"  ventured  Joanna  with  a  daring 
that  shook  her.  She  felt  a  new  recklessness  of  response,  and 
this  time  as  he  pressed  her  lips  more  manfully,  a  kind  of  drunk- 
enness crept  up  behind  her  eyes.  Yielding  to  it  was  like 
plunging  down  and  down,  forfeiting  one's  identity,  losing  the 
power  of  sight.  Bob's  features  became  indistinct  and  dream- 
like. 

"  How  wonderful  your  lips  feel,"  said  Bob  solemnly,  as  if 
he  were  reading  out  a  text  in  church. 

"  Do  they?  "  Joanna  felt  them  with  her  finger-tips,  won- 
dering. "  I  love  your  hands  Bob.  I  was  looking  at  them  at 
prayers,"  she  said  in  return.  But  she  did  not  tell  him  that 
it  was  because  they  reminded  her  of  Gerald's  hands. 


60  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

"  Tell  me,"  he  asked  her  presently,  when  they  had  walked 
some  way  on  in  silence.  "  How  long  have  you  cared?  " 

And  Joanna,  floating  in  a  rosy  haze,  was  easily  harmonious 
at  the  cost  of  truth. 

"  I  must  have  cared  for  years  and  years  without  knowing  it," 
she  replied,  happy  in  pleasing  him.  "  And  you?  " 

"  I  suppose  I  must  have  too." 

"  I  wonder  what  makes  you  like  me,  Bob?  " 

"  I  think  it's  because  you  are  so  gentle." 

So  they  strolled  homewards,  lying  sweetly  to  one  another 
and  their  own  hearts  for  love's  sake,  till  they  came  to  the 
bridge  which  led  across  to  High  Kelvin  Place.  Here  Bob 
stopped,  saying  he  would  see  Joanna  home  again.  But  be- 
fore turning  back  they  paused,  leaning  on  the  parapet  of  the 
hing-hung  bridge,  and  they  gazed  down  into  the  wooded  bed 
where  the  river  was  only  betrayed  from  time  to  time  by  a 
snaky  gleam.  To  their  right  rose  a  sheer  escarpment  of  stone, 
and  towering  yet  higher  behind  it,  tier  upon  tier  of  flats  full 
of  windows  seemed  in  the  darkness  to  be  a  dense  forest  screen 
hung  unevenly  with  barred,  many-colored  lanterns.  To  their 
left  ran  the  low  crescent  of  shops,  like  a  necklace  of  gold  and 
brilliants  curved  in  a  velvet  case  and  with  the  colored  lights 
of  a  chemist — a  great  ruby  and  emerald  for  its  central  gems. 
And  above  them,  across  the  great  moist  arch  of  sky,  so  candid 
and  pale,  an  endless  volume  of  cloud  streamed  up  like  smoke 
from  the  horizon. 

"  How  lovely  everything  is!  "  murmured  Joanna  entranced, 
and  she  longed  for  Bob  to  take  her  in  his  arms,  and  with  her 
all  the  wonder  of  the  night  which  was  in  her  heart.  But  he 
seemed  in  a  dream,  and  as  they  returned  hand  in  hand  to 
Collessie  Street,  she  felt  there  was  a  shadow  over  him.  He 
himself  could  not  have  named  it,  but  he  was  beset  by  that 
dread  of  young  men,  the  dread  that  he  would  never  be  able 
to  earn  a  living.  He  was  working  now,  he  told  her,  for  an 
examination  in  the  autumn,  and  much  depended  on  his  pass- 
ing it.  That  he  was  going  up  for  it  at  all  he  owed  to  his 
father's  sacrifices.  And  what  with  this  and  with  his  father's 
illness  Bob  was  oppressed  and  fearful. 

He  broke  it  to  her  that  after  the  examination  he  would  be 
going  to  South  Africa.  One  got  on  faster  abroad,  and  he 
longed  to  pay  his  father  back,  without  delay.  It  would  mean, 
of  course,  that  Joanna  and  he  would  have  to  wait  for  years  to 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  61 

be  married,  but  not  for  so  many  years  as  if  he  stayed  in  this 
country.  The  question  was  could  Joanna  wait  for  him? 

Yes!  Joanna  could  wait;  a  lifetime  if  need  be.  She 
showed  him  shining  eyes  of  assurance.  She  was  gluttonous 
for  sacrifice. 

And  would  she  not  mind  keeping  everything  a  secret  from 
other  people  for  the  present?  To  announce  it  would  only  dis- 
tress his  father  neeoUessly.  Besides,  until  he  had  some  defi- 
nite prospects  he  would  rather  have  nothing  said. 

Joanna  agreed  almost  rapturously  to  everything,  though 
the  situation  as  it  unfolded  struck  some  unacknowledged 
misery  into  her.  She  declared  that  he  was  not  asking  any- 
thing nearly  difficult  enough  for  her.  She  wished  to  be  put 
to  the  hardest  tests. 

Indeed  Bob  was  a  little  taken  aback  by  her  eagerness.  Were 
women  then  so  easy  to  win?  Her  capitulation  seemed  as  com- 
plete as  though  it  came  at  the  end  of  a  long  siege. 

When  he  gravely  kissed  her  good-night  she  surprised  him 
again  (though  herself  still  more)  by  pressing  her  body  with 
a  swift  wildness  against  his.  It  was  only  for  a  delirious  in- 
stant that  she  leaned  so.  But  later,  as  she  lay  awake  think- 
ing over  what  had  happened,  it  was  upon  this  instant  that  she 
dwelt  most  of  all.  For  her  it  was  the  astonishing  jewel  of 
the  evening.  Yet  even  so  she  did  not  let  herself  look  closely 
and  directly  into  it.  Her  choice  was  to  keep  it  vague  and 
veiled.  And  she  hid  it  forthwith  in  the  inner  shrine  of  a 
temple  not  made  with  candles. 

IV 

Though  Bob  had  still  a  fortnight  of  holiday  before  him, 
the  summer  session  at  Glasgow  University  opened  next  day, 
and  Joanna  and  Mabel  went  together  to  the  Anatomy  Class 
at  three  o'clock.  Joanna  had  promised  to  meet  Bob  after- 
wards, and  at  ten  minutes  past  four  she  was  racing  towards 
the  gate  of  the  Botanic  Gardens  where  he  waited.  Escaping 
from  Mabel  had  not  been  easy,  but  she  had  managed  it  some- 
how. 

She  distinguished  Bob's  figure  from  a  distance,  though  he 
was  standing  with  his  back  to  her,  and  she  wondered  how  it 
was  that  with  all  men  so  much  alike,  one's  lover  should  be  so 
unmistakable.  He  was  at  the  entrance  to  one  of  the  glass 
houses,  which,  with  their  squatting,  opalescent  bosses,  are  like  < 


62  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

breast-plates  of  mother-of-pearl.  Under  the  bright  lift  of  the 
sky,  that  seemed  to  have  burst  upwards  through  tatters  of 
brown  cloud,  the  world  showed  a  shouting  violence  of  color. 

Yet  it  was  the  lassitude  of  spring  that  assailed  the  two  as 
they  strolled  about  the  hilly  red  paths  of  the  garden.  They 
talked  disjointedly,  and  with  uncomfortable  silences  in  which 
Joanna  found  herself  drifting  irresistibly  into  solitary  dreams. 
They  passed  some  stunted  stone  pines  that  laid  their  dark 
heads  together  in  a  conspiracy,  their  black  tufts  and  tassels 
showing  in  Japanese  detail  against  the  sky.  And  by  the 
side  of  these  bandit  trees  a  company  of  beeches  stood  like 
nuns,  so  detached  and  pure  were  they  in  their  pallor.  Joanna, 
thinking  these  things,  found  herself  again  and  again  inatten- 
tive to  what  Bob  was  saying. 

Still  unlinked,  they  descended  to  the  Kelvin  by  a  long  wind- 
ing flight  of  timber-edged  steps  cut  in  the  steep  earth  of  the 
ravine.  Quickly  the  sunshine  was  left  behind,  and  they  dropped 
into  the  damp  shrubby  gloom.  Then  mounting  the  slight 
wooden  bridge,  so  arched  that  it  had  slats  nailed  across  for 
foothold,  they  stood  in  the  sunlight  once  more  and  looked 
down  at  the  stream.  Among  the  willows  leaning  top-heavily 
over  the  swollen  current,  some  of  the  longest  twigs  were 
already  threaded  with  silver.  The  water  kept  catching  at 
their  drooping  ends  and  letting  them  go  again.  Two  grayish 
swans  stayed  themselves  on  the  swirling  surface.  The  rank 
grass  was  sprinkled  with  a  few  scraggy  hyacinths.  Joanna 
wished  it  was  more  beautiful. 

"  I  say,  Joanna!  "  said  Bob,  and  something  in  his  abrupt 
voice  made  her  search  his  face  quickly.  "  After  all  I  wrote 
to  Dad  this  morning  to  say  that — telling  him  about  you  and 
me " 

"  But  I  thought " began  Joanna  in  concern. 

"  Yes,  I  know.  But  afterwards  I  felt  that  if  it  got  round  to 
him  and  I  hadn't  told  him,  it  would  hurt  him.  Besides — 
well,  I  told  George  Boyd  last  night.  We  were  sitting  up  talk- 
ing by  the  fire.  You  don't  mind,  Joey,  do  you?  It  was 
really  because  I'm  so  proud  of  your  caring  about  me." 

"  I  don't  see  why  I  should  mind,"  replied  Joanna  unsurely. 

"  It  was  you  yourself  that  said " 

"  I  know,"  admitted  Bob,  "  and  I  still  think  we  ought  to 
keep  it  to  ourselves  as  much  as  possible.  George  has  promised 
not  to  say  a  word  to  anyone.  But  with  Dad  so  anxious  about 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  63 

me,  and  ill  and  all  that "    His  voice  trailed  off  weakly. 

"  I'm  afraid  he's  pretty  bad.  The  doctors  don't  seem  too 
hopeful,  though  even  at  the  worst  it  will  most  likely  be  a  long 
business." 

Bob  gazed  with  gloomy,  rather  foolish  eyes  up  stream  at 
the  anchored  swans  and  bobbing  willow-slips,  and  a  nerve 
in  his  cheek  twitched  slightly  as  he  spoke  of  his  father. 
Joanna  looked  at  him,  and  far  down  in  her  heart  came  the  per- 
ception that  he  was  no  use  to  her.  But  never,  never  would 
she  admit  it!  Her  eyes  rested  on  his  sensitive,  too  short 
upper  lip,  and  remembering  the  night  before,  she  found  she 
could  conjure  up  again  that  curious  drunken  feeling  behind  the 
eyeballs. 

"  Bob !  "  she  whispered,  moving  closer  to  him. 

"  Yes?  "  He  slipped  her  hand  with  his  into  his  pocket 
and  looked  aslant  at  her. 

"  Promise  me!  "  — (why  of  course  she  must  love  him  if 
his  touch  made  her  voiceless) — "  promise  me  you  won't  stop 
loving  me  whatever  your  father  says." 

And  Bob  promised.  But  Joanna  scarcely  listened  now. 
So  long  as  they  stood  linked  ever  so  slightly,  the  stream  of 
her  being  ran  full  and  sweetly,  and  Bob  too  was  at  peace. 


Joanna  had  shown  her  drawings  to  Bob  and  he  had  admired 
them.  And  she  had  made  tea  for  him  in  her  new  studio  that 
she  was  so  proud  of,  though  it  was  only  a  little  draughty 
attic  wedged  under  the  slates  of  a  high  block  of  offices  in  town. 
And  now  as  they  sat  there  at  either  side  of  the  tea-table,  a 
wicked  silence  sprang  between  them.  It  had  not  been  wicked 
at  first;  it  had  simply  been  rather  wretched.  Neither  had 
seemed  to  have  anything  more  to  say.  And  while  Bob 
fidgeted  with  his  cigarette,  Joanna  had  let  herself  slip  under 
a  spell  of  inertness.  But  wickedly,  after  a  few  moments, 
she  had  begun  to  wonder  how  long,  left  to  itself,  the  silence 
would  last.  At  first  she  could  not,  now  she  would  not 
break  it.  What  would  Bob  do? 

She  waited,  her  hostility  increasing  instant  by  instant  till 
she  was  perfect  in  hardness  against  him.  And  when  he  sprang 
up,  as  if  to  him  the  situation  was  no  longer  bearable,  a  little 
cold,  satisfied  flame  shot  up  within  her.  But  she  was  unpre- 
pared. And  when  Bob  strode  to  the  back  of  her  chair,  thrust 


64  OPEN    THE    DOOR 

his  hands  under  her  armpits,  and  jerked  her  roughly  to 
her  feet,  it  shocked  her  like  an  explosion. 

For  a  second  she  stood  outraged  and  quite  still  where  he  had 
put  her;  then  wrenching  herself  from  his  hold  she  walked  to 
the  window  without  looking  at  him. 

Bob  followed,  and  they  both  stood  staring  out  in  consterna- 
tion at  the  chimney-pots  and  the  knotted  meshes  of  telegraph 
wires. 

"  You  hurt  my  arms,"  said  Joanna  in  a  queer  muted  voice. 
"Why  did  you?" 

"  I  didn't  know.    I'm  sorry."     He  too  sounded  strangled. 

She  glanced  at  him,  but  could  make  nothing  of  his  face. 
She  had  hoped  to  find  strength  there,  but  she  saw  him  be- 
wildered and  quivering,  cheated  of  his  manhood. 

"  Truly  I'm  sorry,"  he  repeated.  "  Somehow  I  couldn't 
bear  to  see  you  sit  still  a  moment  longer,  never  thinking  of 
me  at  all.  Kiss  and  be  friends,  Joanna!  " 

He  eyed  her  guiltily,  and  guiltily  she  went  into  his  arms. 
They  had  not  before  felt  so  close  to  each  other. 

VI 

When  she  was  alone,  however,  Joanna  remembered  the 
exasperation  in  Bob's  touch.  What  had  happened?  She 
did  not  know,  though  in  her  self  infatuated  humility  she  was 
ready  to  lay  all  the  blame  at  her  own  door.  If  she  were  to  be 
great  in  love,  as  she  had  dreamed,  she  would  have  to  go 
some  other  way  about  it. 

With  her  brain  on  fire  she  devised  a  plan — a  fresh,  sur- 
prising way  in  which  to  shine  before  Bob;  and  that  night 
before  going  to  bed  she  posted  a  note  asking  him  to  lunch 
with  her  at  the  studio  next  day. 

"  Be  sure,"  she  wrote  in  the  postscript,  "  to  bring  a  new 
penny  with  you.  It's  for  something  special.  Don't  fail 
me." 

After  a  restless  night,  she  went  out  and  ran  in  and  out  of 
shops  spending  her  pocket-money  with  a  perilous  elation,  She 
bought  flowers,  fruits,  and  the  most  tempting  luncheon  food 
that  she  could  find.  She  even  went  to  a  licensed  grocer  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life,  and  asked  for  a  bottle  of  their  very 
best  champagne.  Never  having  seen,  much  less  tasted  cham- 
pagne, she  imagined  a  ruby-colored  vintage  in  the  tiny  bottle 
all  trussed  up  in  gilt  paper,  for  which  the  man  asked  twelve- 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  65 

and-sixpence.  Willingly  she  would  have  given  him  all  the 
money  left  in  her  purse. 

The  next  thing  was  wine-glasses,  for  there  were  none  at 
home,  and  Joanna  bought  two  that  caught  her  fancy  in  the 
window  of  a  second-hand  dealer.  Set  exquisitely  on  their 
octagonal  stems,  they  were  like  the  calyxes  of  water-lilies, 
and  the  ancient  flint  glass  from  which  they  had  been  cut, 
seemed  to  imprison  the  faint  green  shimmer  of  river  water  and 
the  criss-cross  of  reeds. 

When  Bob  arrived  he  was  dumbfounded  by  the  extrava- 
gance of  these  preparations,  and  by  the  convulsive  welcome  in 
Joanna's  embrace.  She  asked  him  at  once  if  he  had  brought 
his  new  penny,  and  he  showed  it  to  her,  wondering.  Seeing 
her  corybantic  face,  he  felt  afraid,  even  a  little  sheepish. 

She  would  not  answer  any  questions,  but  made  him  uncork 
the  champagne,  and  cried  out  in  amused  distress  when,  instead 
of  ruby,  a  pool  of  amber  rose  hissing  in  one  of  the  wine  glasses. 
He  laughed  too,  then  making  her  sit  on  his  knees,  and  some 
of  her  strange  gaiety  diffused  itself  into  his  veins  also. 

"  As  we  are  engaged,"  said  Joanna  radiantly,  "  I  want  you 
to  give  me  an  engagement  ring.  It's  always  done,  you  know!  " 
And  she  paused  a  moment,  rejoicing  in  her  lover's  clear  dis- 
comfort. 

"  You  see,  Mother  and  Mabel  know  now,"  she  continued 
smoothly. 

"  They  do,  do  they?  " 

Saying  this,  Bob  sat  up,  almost  dislodging  Joanna,  but  she 
clung  to  him,  and  with  eyes  full  of  cruel  tenderness,  watched 
his  trouble  grow. 

"  Well,  why  not?  "  she  challenged  gently.  "  You  told 
Georgie  and  your  father.  I  really  only  told  Mabel.  And 
Mabel,  though  I  said  she  musn't,  told  Mother.  It  was  mean 
of  her,  but  is  there  any  reason  why  they  shouldn't  both  know 
now?  " 

"  Of  course  not,  no  reason.  Only "  Bob  broke  off 

to  begin  afresh  with  "  What  did  she  say?  Did  she  mind?  " 

"  Mother?  No.  She  was  nice  about  it,  especially  when 
I  told  her  it  would  be  years  before  we  could  get  married,  or 
even  tell  people  we  were  engaged." 

"  H'm,  she'll  want  to  speak  to  me,  though." 

"  She  does.     Do  you  mind?  " 

"  Of  course  not." 


66 

But  Bob  did  mind.  Joanna  knew  by  his  slackened  hold  on 
her.  In  the  little  silence  she  stood  up  and  began  to  tidy  her 
hair  at  the  mirror  over  the  mantlepiece. 

"  And   Mabel?  "     Bob  asked  presently. 

Joanna  turned  smiling  broadly  with  her  arms  still  raised, 
and  she  had  never  been  more  attractive  to  him  than  at  this 
moment.  "  Mabel  asked  me  to  show  her  my  ring,"  she 
replied. 

"  So  that's  why  you  want  me  to  give  you  a  ring?  " 

"  Don't  be  a  silly,  Bob!  I  only  want  to  wear  something 
you've  given  me." 

"  Do  you  think  I  haven't  thought  of  it?  "  said  the  young 
man  wretchedly.  "  I  haven't  any  money  now,  but  as  soon 
as  I  have " 

<rO  Bob  dear!  "  Joanna  sang  to  him  with  ringing  sweetness, 
"  It  isn't  a  real  engagement  ring  with  diamonds  on  it  I  want. 
A  bit  of  string  or  an  elastic  band  would  do  perfectly  if  it  could 
be  made  to  last.  That's  why  I  got  you  to  bring  the  penny 
to-day.  Show  it  to  me  again." 

Coming  close  to  him  she  collapsed  softly  on  the  floor  with 
her  hands  on  his  knees,  and  she  looked  up  at  him  with  shining 
eyes  of  false  worship. 

"  Now  this  is  what  I  want  you  to  do,"  she  told  him.  "  Give 
the  penny  to  George  and  get  him  to  put  it  in  the  puncher  down 
at  the  yard.  He  did  one  for  Mamie  once.  You'll  see  what  a 
perfect  ring  it  makes,  with  the  date  inside  and  everything — 
just  like  a  wedding  ring — and  then  you'll  put  it  on  my  finger, 
and  I'll  wear  it  for  ever  and  ever." 

Bob  pulled  her  to  him  and  hugged  her  between  his  knees, 
fond,  but  in  misery. 

"  You  are  splendid,  Joanna,"  he  said,  "  I'm  far  too  com- 
monplace for  you.  You  should  marry  a  poet,  or  something 
or  other  of  that  sort." 

Though  she  was  flattered  by  it,  Joanna  did  not  like  this 
remark.  She  became  very  still  in  his  arms,  then  withdrew  a 
little,  sitting  back  childlishly  on  her  heels. 

"  You  know  what  I  said  that  day  on  the  bridge  in  the  Botanic 
Gardens?  "  she  began,  not  looking  at  his  face. 

"  What,  particularly?  " 

"  About  your  always,  always  loving  me?  " 

"Yes." 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  67 

"  And  the  first  time  you  kissed  me  I  made  you  promise  never 
to  kiss  anybody  else?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  That  was  all  wrong,"  she  insisted  beginning  to  glow  again. 
"  Last  night  I  was  thinking  things  over.  If  people  love  each 
other  they  shouldn't  make  bargains  or  tie  each  other  down 
(much  less  of  course  if  they  don't  love  each  other).  I  want 
you  to  feel  quite,  quite  free.  And  if  you  should  ever  stop 
wanting  me,  you  aren't  to  feel  bad  or  anything.  You  are 
just  to  tell  me  straight  out.  That  is  to  be  our  sort  of  engage- 
ment." 

She  took  Bob's  hand,  but  there  was  no  response  in  it,  even 
when  she  laid  her  cheek  against  it. 

"  I  suppose  you  mean  it's  the  same  on  your  side  too?  " 
asked  Bob  taking  his  hand  away. 

For  a  moment  Joanna  felt  the  impulse  to  unsay  all  that  she 
had  said.  And  with  the  slightest  encouragement  she  would 
have  thrown  her  arms  around  him,  giving  and  demanding 
afresh  the  immemorial  vows  of  love.  But  there  was  that  in  his 
downcast  eye  and  twitching  cheek  which  kept  her  isolated. 

"  Surely,"  she  said  dully,  instead.  "  You  wouldn't  want 
to  hold  me  against  my  will?  " 

"  You  know  I  shouldn't!  " 

"  Well,  neither  should  I  you.    That's  all  I  mean." 

So  Joanna's  carefully  planned  betrothal  feast  ended  in 
flatness. 

VII 

Within  the  next  week  Bob  received  three  letters  from  his 
father.  They  were  grave  and  affectionate,  containing  no 
definite  reproach,  but  flying  unmistakable  signals  of  distress. 
There  was  an  appeal  in  their  restrained  exhaustion,  and  the 
son  knew  that  the  writing  of  them  had  cost  something. 

Bob  had  his  talk  too  with  Juley,  and  though  she  had  been 
kind,  he  came  away  writhing.  He  had  barely  escaped  having 
to  kneel  down  on  the  parlor  floor  with  her  to  pray  for  guid- 
ance in  a  matter  of  such  moment  as  the  joining  of  his  life  with 
another's. 

As  for  Mabel,  she  had  congratulated  him  with  a  sly  touch  of 
amusement  in  her  eyes  which  made  him  redden  uncomfort- 
ably afterwards,  and  often  at  Collessie  Street  he  noticed  her 


68  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

calculating  glance  pass  between  himself  and  his  betrothed  as 
though  there  were  for  Mabel  some  secret  edification  in  their 
connection. 

He  hated  going  to  Collessie  Street,  and  always  tried  to  get 
Joanna  to  meet  him  outside  or  at  her  studio.  But  early  one 
afternoon  he  was  caught  in  a  heavy  shower  in  town,  and  ran 
in  to  the  Bannerman's  house  for  shelter.  Joanna  was  not 
there,  but  Mabel  was,  and  Bob  and  she  sat  talking  until 
Joanna  should  come  in. 

Before  ten  minutes  had  passed,  Bob  became  aware  that  he 
was  enjoying  himself  as  he  had  not  enjoyed  himself  for  weeks. 
Mabel  was  wonderfully  pleasant  company.  She  made  none 
of  that  emotional  demand  on  him  that  he  was  conscious  of 
when  he  was  with  Joanna.  She  neither  exalted  him  into 
something  that  he  was  not,  nor  pushed  him  into  a  mere  pup- 
pet's place.  His  manhood  expanded  itself  in  Mabel's  sensual 
warmth,  and  it  was  a  relief  that  she  did  not  touch  his  imagina- 
tion. He  began  to  have  a  glimmering  of  what  was  wrong 
between  him  and  Joanna.  She  would  not  let  him  be  himself. 
She  had  no  use  for  the  man  in  him — the  man  he  essentially 
was.  She  did  not  even  see  what  he  was,  much  less  love  it. 
Mabel  never  got  near  his  emotions;  he  felt  no  excitement 
sitting  here  with  her:  yet  she  went  straight  to  the  male  in 
him,  recognized  it,  made  him  feel  pleased  to  be  what  he  was. 
She  interested  his  mind  too,  and  he  found  himself  watching 
her  face.  Even  when  she  was  not  talking,  he  found  himself 
wondering  what  were  her  thoughts.  Why  had  it  never  struck 
him  before  that  Mabel  was  clever?  But  just  as  he  was  ask- 
ing himself  this,  Mabel  invited  him  with  a  sigh  to  sympathize 
with  her  stupidity. 

"  Joanna,  now,  makes  me  feel  so  commonplace  and  silly, 
you  can't  think!  "  she  said.  "  She's  like  a  person  in4 a  book.  I 
always  think,  don't  you?  But  I  never  succeed  in  being  any- 
thing but  ordinary  and  stupid." 

"  I  shouldn't  have  thought  you  were  stupid  whatever  you 
were,"  replied  Bob.  He  was  smiling  at  her,  his  eyes  lively  and 
a  little  teasing.  If  he  had  had  a  mustache  he  would  have 
twisted  it  upwards. 

"  Oh!  but  I  am."  Mabel  gave  him  a  look  of  earnest  inno- 
cence, leaning  forward  and  hugging  her  knees  as  if  for  com- 
fort. "  I  shouldn't  like  you  to  know  how  stupid.  For  instance 
do  you  know  I  haven't  yet  picked  up  Double  Dutch,  though 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  69 

Georgia  says  it's  easy  as  easy,  and  Sholto  could  do  it  when  he 
was  six." 

Bob  laughed.  "  It's  only  a  catch.  Do  you  mean  to  say 
you  really  don't  know  how  to  do  it?  " 

"  Really  and  truly,"  Mabel  assured  him.  "  If  you'll  try 
to  teach  me,"  she  begged  meekly,  "  you'll  see  for  yourself  what 
a  little  idiot  I  am." 

Bob  knew  it  was  all  humbug.  But  it  was  trifling,  feminine 
humbug,  and  behind  its  shallow  pretence  Mabel  and  he  under- 
stood each  other  and  were  at  ease.  He  despised  and  rather 
liked  her.  Above  all  he  was  grateful  to  her.  It  was  good  to 
feel  himself  a  man,  even  to  feel  a  little  manly  contempt  for  a 
girl's  trickiness.  He  could  not  feel  contempt  for  Joanna  even 
when  she  was  most  absurd. 

When  Joanna  came  in  she  found  them  chattering  between 
bursts  of  laughter  in  the  long  withheld  language,  and  she 
knew  at  once  how  happy  the  two  had  been.  Her  greeting 
to  Bob  was  forcedly  casual,  and  soon,  Mabel  with  an  elaborate 
assumption  that  nothing  was  amiss,  left  the  parlor.  Joanna, 
who  had  walked  over  to  the  window,  stood  there  biting  her 
lips  to  keep  from  crying. 

"  What's  up?  "  asked  Bob.  And  he  had  persuaded  himself 
into  speaking  rather  truculently.  (WTiy,  from  Joanna's  man- 
ner one  would  think  he  had  been  caught  kissing  Mabel,  when 
surely  never  on  earth  had  there  been  a  more  innocent  con- 
versation! ) 

Joanna  turned  on  him  in  passionate  mortification.  "  You 
know  perfectly  well  that  we  never  allowed  Mabel  to  learn 
Double  Dutch!  " 

"  But  Jo!  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  keep  up  a  babyish 
thing  like  that,  now  we're  grown  up.  I'd  forgotten  all  about 
it.  Anyway  what  in  the  world  does  it  matter,  her  knowing 
it,  if  she  wants  to?  " 

"Don't  call  me  'Jo';  I  hate  it!  You  knew  perfectly 
well,"  the  girl  repeated. 

"  I  tell  you  it  never  occurred  to  me  that  there  was  still 
anything  in  an  old  thing  like  that." 

Meeting  under  Mabel's  eyes,  they  had  not  kissed  each  other, 
and  now  it  struck  both  of  them  at  the  same  moment  that  if 
only  they  could  kiss  quickly  all  might  be  well.  But  they 
could  not  approach  each  other.  Under  Bob's  wretchedness 
he  was  setting  hard  and  triumphant  against  her,  and  Joanna 


70  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

while  she  could  feel  it  could  do  nothing.  She  could  only  wait. 
But  she  had  a  fierce  longing  for  him  to  lay  things  bare  for 
both  of  them. 

"  I  want  to  talk  to  you,  Joanna." 

"  Go  on,"  she  muttered.  She  leaned  by  the  misted  fern- 
case,  and  behind  her  the  grass  in  the  back  garden  sloped 
vivid  against  the  gray  afternoon  storm,  and  the  newly  laid 
path  stood  out  ruddy  with  wetness. 

"  How  can  I,  if  you  stand  like  that  with  your  back  to  me?  " 
His  petulant  voice  was  attractive  to  her,  but  when  she  turned 
and  sat  down  to  hear  him,  she  was  frozen  again,  seeing  his 
propitiating  glance. 

Blind  she  was  to  his  pathos  and  his  decency.  She  could 
only  hate  him  for  being  afraid  of  her,  and  she  hated  herself 
for  having  made  him  afraid.  She  would  like  him  to  have 
beaten  her  and  made  her  his,  but  instead  he  was  cringing  now  in 
expectation  of  punishment.  So  she  sat  aloof  and  forbidding, 
her  hands  folded,  watching  her  power  in  misuse. 

"  I  feel  a  beast,  Joanna"  he  began  at  last;  and  she  knew 
by  his  voice  how  his  lower  lip  was  trembling.  "  But  you  know 
what  you  said  that  day  at  the  studio?  " 

For  assent  she  could  only  look  up.  She  could  not  speak. 
She  knew  now  what  was  coming,  and  with  all  the  energy  of 
her  egoism  she  was  preparing  to  meet  the  shock  without  a 
cry.  He  should  see  how  she  could  stand  by  her  bargain! 

"  I  find  I'm  not  so  sure  of  myself  as  I  ought  to  be,  which 
isn't  fair  to  you,"  he  continued.  "  Besides  you  asked  me  to 
tell  you  if  I  wasn't,  didn't  you?  And  you  said  you'd  tell  me 
if  you  weren't?  "  Bob  knew  this  was  an  untrue  beginning 
but  it  came  handy.  The  larger  truth  he  was  grappling  with 
was  too  difficult. 

"  The  fact  is  you  are  far  too  good  for  me"  he  said;  and  he 
stopped  in  despair. 

But  now  it  was  out.  That  was  something.  He  had  only 
to  wait  for  Joanna.  Her  eyes  were  downcast  again,  and  she 
was  so  still  that  Bob  longed  for  an  explosion.  A  little  cool 
excitement  took  him,  as  it  often  did  in  the  laboratory  when  he 
watched  a  test-tube  for  the  verification  of  some  risky  hypo- 
thesis. What  would  she  do? 

"  Are  you  in  love  with  Mabel?  "  she  asked  after  a  moment, 
and  in  the  chasm  of  silence  that  followed,  their  glances  clashed 
injuriously. 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  71 

"No,  of  course  not!  "  Bob's  voice  was  sincerely  indignant, 
but  by  the  light  of  this  indignation  there  flashed  in  Joanna  a 
clear  outline,  like  a  map  thrown  upon  an  illuminated  screen. 

"  But  being  with  Mabel  makes  you  feel  you  aren't  sure 
about  me?  "  she  said. 

"  Perhaps,"  Bob  admitted  slowly.  "  But  I'm  not  in  love 
with  Mabel,"  he  added.  "  You  can  take  that  from  me.  I'm 
not — never  was,  never  will  be." 

Though  he  struggled  nearer  to  the  truth  now,  it  still  remained 
beyond  his  grasp  that  Joanna  with  her  romantic  cravings  had 
sent  him  smack  to  the  merely  sensual  Mabel,  and  that,  as 
things  were,  a  man's  love  could  not  thrive  with  neither. 

A  sudden  resigned  sadness  descended  on  Joanna,  blotting 
out  emotion  for  the  time  with  its  lassitude.  It  was  all  too 
difficult  for  her  to  understand.  She  felt  a  faint  nausea,  and 
only  longed  to  be  alone.  There  was  no  inclination  either  to 
plead  or  to  weep.  In  a  sort  of  dream  she  listened  to  her  own 
voice  calmly  releasing  Bob.  What  was  it  to  him  that  she 
saw  the  remainder  of  life  stretching  before  her  like  a  dull  dusty 
road?  There  was  not  one  kind  thought  in  her  for  him.  He 
had  failed  her  and  made  her  fail.  Still  in  a  dream  she  watched 
herself  take  him  to  the  door  and  shake  his  hand  mechani- 
cally. 

But  Bob  lingered  on  the  steps.  And  as  he  looked  at  her 
standing  there  six  inches  above  him  on  the  door-mat,  staring 
past  him  at  the  rain,  the  truth  broke  from  him.  It  hurt  him, 
and  he  hoped  it  would  hurt  her. 

"  If  only  you  had  cared  one  bit  for  me,  Joanna!  " 

"  7,  for  you!  "    Joanna  looked  at  him  now. 

"  Yes,  that  has  been  it.  You've  never  cared  a  straw — 
only  for  yourself,  and  for  something  .  .  .  Ideas  perhaps,  I 
don't  know  what  .  .  .  never  for  me." 

At  this  something  seemed  to  snap  in  Joanna's  brain,  and  the 
gray  street  danced  scarlet  before  her  eyes.  She  raised  her 
right  hand,  swung  it  far  back,  and  putting  strength  into  the 
open  palm,  struck  the  side  of  Bob's  fascinated  face. 

His  bowler  hat  bounded  down  the  steps  with  an  absurd 
hollow  sound  at  each  contact,  and  rolled  across  the  wet  pave- 
ment to  rest  on  the  grating  of  an  overworked  drain.  And 
after  one  petrified  moment  he  followed  it,  his  hand  to  his  stung 
cheek.  But  before  he  picked  it  up  Joanna  was  gone  into 
the  house  and  the  door  was  shut. 


72  OPEN   THE    DOOR 

vnr 

She  ran  back  to  the  parlor.  For  a  minute  she  remained 
furious,  glowing  from  her  undreamed-of  action,  but  this  faded 
quickly  and  left  her  ill  with  chagrin.  Who  could  have  fore- 
seen such  an  ending  to  heroic  love?  What  had  happened? 
She  must  think?  No.  She  must  not  think!  Not  yet.  Not 
for  some  time. 

The  noise  of  some  one  stirring  in  the  room  overhead  inter- 
rupted her  at  her  task  of  blindfolding  thought.  There  was  a 
sound  as  if  a  book  had  been  dropped,  and  the  crystals  on  the 
chandeliers  tinkled  from  the  vibration.  Mabel!  Yes,  it 
must  be  Mabel  in  the  drawing-room.  Mabel,  sitting  smiling 
to  herself!  Perhaps  she  had  been  at  the  window — had  seen 
what  had  happened.  Joanna  felt  her  vanity  flayed. 

It  was  a  relief  however  having  to  call  upon  her  energies,  so 
as  to  escape  the  slanting,  malicious  sympathy  of  her  cousin's 
eyes;  and  stealing  from  the  parlor  she  went  on  tiptoe  to 
the  hat  stand  where  she  had  thrown  her  wet  coat  on  coming 
in.  As  if  in  league  with  her  action,  there  was  a  sudden,  reso- 
lute reinforcement  in  the  sound  of  the  rain  outside;  and  some 
unconscious  instinct  of  care  made  the  girl  take  off  the  trimmed 
hat  she  was  wearing,  and  pull  on  instead,  the  old  tammy  in 
which  she  had  met  Bob  the  first  time. 

Once  outside  she  ran  in  terror,  turning  uphill  at  the  first 
corner  so  as  to  get  quickly  out  of  range  of  the  windows. . 

The  heavens  were  emptying  themselves  with  determined 
violence,  and  Joanna  rejoiced  in  the  downpour.  She  gave 
herself  to  it,  lifting  her  face  to  the  drench.  Soon  she  stopped 
running,  but  held  to  a  rapid  walk,  as  though  bound  on  some 
definite  errand.  "I  mustn't  think!  I  musn't  think!"  she 
told  herself,  making  the  words  keep  time  with  her  foot- 
falls—  "  Not  till  I  get  away.  Not  till  I  find  a  place  to  hide  in." 

Soon  she  was  in  a  road  where  green  tram-cars  were  running. 
She  swung  herself  on  to  a  westward-bound  car  between  stop- 
ping places,  and  enjoyed  the  excitement  of  the  spring.  There 
were  empty  seats  inside,  but  Joanna  climbed  upstairs. 

The  straight  rain  came  down  torrential,  and  recoiled  hiss- 
ing from  the  stone  setts.  The  dark  slate  roofs  gleamed  against 
a  slowly  lightening  pall  of  sky  as  if  they  had  been  varnished. 
On  the  exposed  Kelvin  Bridge  a  few  shining  umbrellas  hurried 
and  fought  their  way  across  to  the  comparative  shelter  of  the 


OPENTHEDOOR  73 

houses  at  each  end.  Joanna,  with  fierce  satisfaction  grew 
wetter  and  wetter.  Perhaps  she  would  get  pneumonia  and  die. 
Father  had  died  of  pneumonia.  But  she  felt  beautifully  warm 
from  her  run. 

When  the  car  reached  the  terminus,  she  got  down  and  struck 
off  sharply  to  the  right — her  quickest  way  of  reaching  wooded 
country.  After  passing  some  unsightly  tenement  blocks  and 
crossing  the  canal,  she  took  an  uphill  bend  between  hedges 
in  which  last  year's  leaves  rattled  fretfully.  It  was  a  narrow 
lane,  and  for  a  while  she  was  kept  back  by  a  horse  and  cart. 
1'he  big,  beautiful  bulk  of  the  horse  was  strained  to  the  in- 
cline in  a  cloud  of  steam,  and  steam  flew  back  in  gusts  from 
its  nostrils.  But  Joanna  must  go  on:  so  she  ran  up  the  slippery 
bank,  and  was  soon  far  ahead.  With  every  step  she  fled  back 
to  her  childhood,  back  to  tlia  protection  of  dreams.  She  was 
seeking  the  woods  as  Juley  would  have  taken  refuge  in  prayer.. 
She  had  failed  and  must  find  comfort.  There  was  not  yet  in 
her  the  strength  to  face  failure  uncomforted. 

And  at  last  she  was  in  the  country,  though  it  was  all  wrapped 
in  cold  clouds  and  mist.  There  were  pastures  now  on  either 
side,  divided  by  gray  stone  dykes.  A  mare  on  the  road  shied 
badly  at  the  lines  of  white  water  standing  in  the  fields,  and 
her  rider,  bowing  before  the  arrowy  rain,  punished  her  reeking 
flanks  viciously  with  his  crop. 

Still  further  on,  the  road  crossed  a  stream  that  flowed  level 
with  its  banks.  It  was  the  color  of  flint,  and  the  white,  angry 
little  crests  on  its  surface  were  like  parings  of  horn.  Joanna 
pulled  off  her  gloves,  took  Bob's  penny  ring  from  her  finger, 
and  dropped  it  into  the  water.  It  disappeared  without  a 
splash.  That  was  done,  anyhow!  Her  gloves  were  too  wet  to 
put  on  again:  so  she  flung  them  after  the  ring. 

At  the  next  turn  in  the  road  she  saw  what  she  wanted.  Up 
to  the  left,  beyond  a  hilly  field,  a  fringe  of  trees  ran  along 
a  crest  of  high  ground,  and  they  were  like  the  trees  on  the 
way  to  the  Upper  Pond  at  Duntarvie.  At  once  Joanna  left  the 
road,  squeezed  through  an  unlatched  gate,  and  with  her  feet 
sinking  at  each  step  deeper  in  sopping  cattle-tracks,  she  made 
for  her  wooded  summit. 

When  she  reached  the  trees  she  rejoiced  to  find  that  they 
were  mostly  beeches.  Their  trunks,  wrinkled  and  sweating, 
were  stained  in  dark  patches  with  the  rain,  and  the  floor  of 
dead  foliage  glowed  purple  and  sodden.  As  the  girl  wound 


74  OPEN   THE    DOOR 

her  arms  round  one  of  the  strong,  lovely  trees,  pressing  her 
cheek  against  its  wet  hide,  a  thrush  flew  out  from  the  under- 
growth with  a  disturbed  chudkling  cry. 

Now  was  the  time  to  think  things  out  clearly  and  bravely — 
to  find  out  what  had  happened,  and  to  face  it.  But  she  no- 
ticed a  leaf  that  fluttered  captive,  pierced  by  a  sharp  twig,  and 
first  she  must  set  it  free.  Next  a  blackbird  distracted  her 
attention.  He  sat  grooming  himself  for  some  minutes;  then 
flew  off  with  a  spatter  of  raindrops. 

So  instead  of  thinking,  Joanna  sat  on  the  driest  log  she  could 
find,  and  slipped  moment  by  moment  deeper  into  the  familiar 
softness  of  dreams.  Soon,  very  soon,  the  false  image  Bob  had 
shattered,  pieced  itself  together  again,  and  she  saw  herself 
again  in  the  shape  of  her  vanity.  Was  not  this  her  supreme 
opportunity?  Could  she  not  prove  to  Bob  what  it  was  that 
he  had  cast  aside?  Yes,  she  would  go  on  loving  him  in  spite 
of  himself — loving  him  and  waiting.  She-  had  a  vision  of  his 
returning  penitent  and  impassioned  after  many  years,  to  find 
her  true,  unreproachful,  angelically  forgiving.  He  would  re- 
turn of  his  own  free  will,  after  long  pining  in  vain  for  a  word, 
a  sign  from  her.  Glowing,  she  imagined  the  moment  when 
he  would  rush  across  continents  to  fling  himself  at  her  feet 
(the  intervening  years  having  flashed  by  like  minutes). 

But  there  ran  as  usual  on  the  heels  of  Joanna's  fantasy  the 
necessity  for  concrete  action.  Bob  was  leaving  the  day  after 
to-morrow.  Her  first  notion  had  been  neither  to  see  him  nor 
to  answer  any  letter  he  might  write,  but  to  wait  silently 
through  the  years.  But  suppose  he  neither  came  nor  wrote? 
Then  he  would  never  know  of  her  heroic  decision — a  thing 
not  to  be  contemplated.  No,  she  must  see  him  that  night 
before  she  slept.  But  how?  If  she  called  at  the  Boyds' 
house  she  was  unlikely  to  see  him  alone. 

This  small  but  practical  difficulty,  with  its  demand  on  re- 
source, was  refreshing;  and  even  before  her  plan  was  com- 
plete, hope  danced  in  Joanna's  veins  once  more.  Perhaps 
after  all  she  would  not  have  to  wait  for  years!  Voluptuously 
she  saw  herself  begging  for  Bob's  forgiveness.  She  wallowed 
beforehand  in  their  mutual  abasement  which  was  to  end  with 
fresh  avowals  and  herself  enthroned. 

So  she  descended  from  her  beech-grown  height  and  made 
for  town  again,  tucking  her  wet  hair  up  under  the  woolen  cap 
that  was  heavy  with  rain. 


OPENTHEDOOR  75 

In  the  tram-car  a  young  man  with  a  small  mustache  stared 
persistently  at  her,  and  when  she  alighted  he  followed  her  with 
his  eyes  as  long  as  he  could.  This  was  by  no  means  displeas- 
ing to  Joanna,  but  she  told  herself  how  glad  she  was  that  Bob 
had  no  mustache. 

At  a  stationer's  she  bought  notepaper  and  a  pencil,  and 
without  pausing,  scribbled  this  note  to  Bob: — 

"  Come  out  and  see  me  for  a  minute.  I  do  want  to  speak 
to  you.  I'm  waiting  in  the  close  next  door.  Joanna." 

Having  addressed  it,  she  walked  quivering  towards  High 
Kelvin  Place;  and  the  first  likely  errand  boy  that  passed,  was 
waylaid  by  her  and  told  how  he  might  earn  a  six  pence  if  he 
were  clever.  Several  times  he  had  to  repeat  his  instructions 
before  Joanna  would  let  him  go. 

And  the  plan  worked  smoothly!  The  messenger  had 
scarcely  claimed  his  money  when  Bob  stepped  bareheaded  out 
of  the  Boyds'  house.  He  looked  in  his  odd  blind  way  to  one 
side  and  another  before  he  discovered  Joanna,  and  watching 
him  she  felt  faint  with  excitement. 

"  I  say,  you  are  wet,  Joanna!  "  was  his  first  remark  when 
they  had  met.  Her  skirts  dripped  on  the  stone  flags,  and  Bob 
touched  her  soaked  sleeve  timidly.  Rings  of  hair,  curled  and 
darkened  by  the  rain,  lay  close  against  her  cheeks.  He  found 
her  freshened  face  splendid. 

"  Where  on  earth  have  you  been?  How  did  you  manage  to 
send  me  this?  "  And  he  flicked  the  note  which  was  still  in 
his  hand. 

Joanna  told  him  how  she  had  gone  into  the  country  and  had 
thrown  his  ring  into  a  river.  But  before  she  could  disclose  her 
intention  of  loving  him  for  ever,  she  saw  that  Bob  was  look- 
ing on  the  ground,  and  she  knew  herself  in  the  wrong 
again.  It  was  all  no  use.  His  only  suggestion  was  that 
she  should  change  quickly  into  dry  clothes.  That  was  all 
then!  But  what  were  his  thoughts?  How  unfair,  that  she 
could  not — that  she  never  would — know!  This  unfairness 
it  was  that  goaded  her  into  asking  him  again  if  he  loved 
Mabel;  and  she  really  longed  for  his  admission.  But  no. 
He  still  denied  it;  and  she  believed  him.  He  did  not  love 
Mabel. 

Then  why?  Why?  (How  gladly  would  Joanna  have  put 
him  on  the  rack  if  so  she  could  have  wrung  some  damaging 
thing  from  him.) 


76  OPEN    THE    DOOR 

But  he  would  only  say  with  maddening  quietness  that  one 
couldn't  argue  about  a  feeling. 

"  Good  night,  then,"  said  Joanna,  unable  suddenly  for  more; 
and  she  left  him,  going  down  the  steps. 

Yet  when  Bob  uttered  her  name  with  pleading,  she  had  to 
look  back. 

"  Aren't  you  going  to  kiss  me  good-by?  "  he  asked. 

She  stood  amazed  at  him;  and  the  notion  that  he  was  an 
idiot  careered  through  her  brain.  Either  he  was  an  idiot,  or 
what  he  had  just  said  was  for  ever  inexcusable. 

But  instead  of  widening  the  distance  between  them,  Joanna 
went  on  looking  over  her  shoulder  at  him,  and  she  saw  how 
dejectedly  he  lingered  in  the  dark  entrance.  He  was  going 
away  the  day  after  to-morrow,  and  was  asking  for  a  good-by 
kiss.  Why  would  she  not  give  one? 

In  all  simplicity  now,  she  ran  back  to  him.  And  in  the 
shadow  of  the  close  she  threw  her  arms  round  his  neck  and 
pressed  her  shell-cold  face  to  his.  To  Bob  it  was  the  sweetest 
of  their  few  kisses;  but  it  was  a  farewell  kiss,  and  short,  and 
he  let. her  go. 

This  time  she  ran  from  him  without  looking  back. 

IX 

She  did  not  see  Bob  again  before  he  left,  and  with  his  going 
her  life  became  empty.  All  charm  and  interest  went  from 
her  studies;  and  before  long  her  manifest  indifference  had  its 
effect  upon  her  teachers.  They  ceased  to  feel  any  profes- 
sional responsibility  where  she  was  concerned.  She  became  a 
notorious  shirker  of  classes,  and  passed  much  time  in  listless 
dabbling  at  her  studio.  Sometimes  she  lapsed  for  hours  into 
solitary  idleness. 

And  at  home  it  was  worse.  At  home  there  was  a  jarring  on 
the  girl's  exposed  nerves  at  every  turn.  Juley's  late  nights 
were  telling  at  last  on  her  health.  She  was  losing  her  wonder- 
ful recuperative  power,  and  she  suffered  from  swollen  ankles. 
The  children  knew  now  when  she  had  slept  more  on  her  chair 
than  in  her  bed,  by  a  puffiness  that  showed  round  her  eyes 
in  the  mornings.  But  nothing  they  could  do  or  say  made  any 
difference,  so  they  were  all  cutting  adrift  from  her. 

Georgie  in  the  Autumn  was  going  to  London.  She  returned 
from  Dresden  late  in  June,  her  dream  of  emulating  Neruda 
gone,  but  her  enthusiasm  intact.  A  Dresden  fellow-student 


OPENTHEDOOR  77 

with  a  new  system  of  teaching  children  was  opening  a  small 
music-school  in  Hampstead,  and  she  had  asked  Georgie  to 
help  her.  Georgie's  capital — a  sum  of  £400 — which  she  and 
Joanna  alike  had  by  their  father's  will — would  be  involved. 
But  what  a  chance  after  only  one  year's  study  abroad!  So 
Georgie  got  her  way. 

There  remained  the  boys:  and  though  they  were  full  of 
their  own  occupations,  their  activities  brought  the  curves  of 
their  lives  nearer  to  Joanna's  than  they  had  been  since  nursery 
days. 

Linnet,  with  a  mind  to  the  Law,  and  a  berth  promised  him 
in  Mr.  Boyd's  excellent  firm,  was  preparing  for  Leaving  Cer- 
tificates. He  was  studious  rather  than  clever,  and  often  he 
would  come  to  Joanna  begging  her  to  "  go  over  "  an  English 
essay,  or  he  would  ask  her  advice  on  a  mathematical  problem, 
the  principles  of  which  had  first  to  be  explained  to  her,  so  far 
behind  had  he  left  his  sister  in  school  subjects. 

Sholto  on  the  other  hand  dreamed  Imperial  dreams  which 
wavered  constantly  between  Canada  and  Australia.  He  loved 
open  air,  the  exercise  of  his  muscles,  and  all  handicrafts.  As 
soon  as  he  left  the  Academy  he  was  going  to  the  Argicultural 
College,  after  which,  before  leaving  the  country  he  would  ap- 
prentice himself  to  some  farmer  in  the  Lowlands.  Meanwhile 
he  spent  his  leisure  in  a  shed  in  the  back-green  where  he  had 
a  carpenter's  bench.  He  made  stools,  and  medicine-cupboards, 
and  little  tables,  and  afterwards  poker-worked  them  to  his 
immense  satisfaction.  And  though  Joanna  from  her  Art  School 
heights  despised  such  a  facile  mode  of  decoration,  she  couldn't 
help  growing  interested  when  he  asked  her  for  designs.  At 
Christmas-time  especially,  they  turned  out  between  them 
heaps  of  "blotters"  and  photograph-frames;  and  in  return 
for  his  sister's  help,  Sholto  would  gladly  devote  a  whole  Satur- 
day afternoon  to  her  when  she  was  trying  to  turn  the  shed 
stove  into  a  furnace  for  enamel-work. 

But  after  Bob's  kisses  there  was  no  more  savor  for  Joanna 
in  her  brothers'  companionship,  and  she  had  a  miserable  sum- 
mer. She  was  glad  of  one  thing  only,  that  Mabel  had  gone 
back  to  stay  with  Aunt  Ellen. 

She  was  too  dispirited  even  to  protest  against  the  small  and 
hideous  villa  which  Juley  took  for  two  months  on  one  of  the 
Clyde  lochs.  And  although  the  boys  enjoyed  the  sea-fishing 
and  knocking  about  in  boats,  all  five  got  badly  on  each  other's 


78  OPENTHEDOOR 

nerves  during  the  holiday.  Georgie  resented  not  having  been 
consulted  in  the  choice  of  a  place.  They  might  at  least  have 
remembered  that  she  hated  the  Clyde,  and  felt  ill  there.  A 
cold  and  rainy  season  did  not  help.  Georgie  criticized  un- 
ceasingly, and  unceasingly  practiced  her  fiddle  in  the  only 
sitting-room.  Her  diligence,  as  Janet  the  cook  said,  was  "  some- 
thing awful."  Now  and  then  Georgie  would  demand  of  the 
others  if  they  didn't  notice  the  extraordinary  difference  in 
her  tone,  due  to  Dresden;  and  if  the  answer  was  doubtful, 
she  argued  the  point  till  a  definitely  favorable  reply  was  forth- 
coming. Once  when  Sholto  stuck  to  his  guns  and  insisted 
that  it  sounded  the  very  same  as  before,  she  said,  "  Well,  it 
can't  be  helped  what  you  think;  I  know  it's  quite  different!  " 
Absence  had  made  her  very  sensitive  to  the  failings  of  her 
family,  and  she  girded  particularly  at  her  mother.  Then 
Sholto,  who  could  be  as  inimical  to  his  mother  as  any  of  them, 
would  step  out  as  her  champion.  Georgie  and  he  had  always 
been  peculiarly  capable  of  irritating  each  other,  and  now  they 
squabbled  maddeningly  over  trifles.  Linnet  took  to  mooning. 
Joanna  was  quiet  and  wretched.  Juley  with  many  tears 
prayed  for  guidance  and  forgiveness. 

Yet  were  there  hours  when  for  a  quiet  breathing-space  the 
five  seemed  to  regain  something  of  their  forgotten  early  har- 
mony. 

One  promising  afternoon  Joanna  and  Georgie  packed  a 
picnic-basket,  and  with  rugs  and  a  kettle  they  all  climbed 
the  hill  behind  the  house.  Sholto  pushed  his  mother  up  the 
steepest  places  with  such  vigor  that  she  laughed  like  a  school- 
girl with  her  clear  bell-like  laugh.  Then  when  they  had  sat 
down  and  spread  out  their  belongings,  Linnet  took  her  shoes 
off,  and  Joanna  pulled  out  the  toes  of  her  thick  cashmere 
stockings  in  the  way  Juley  loved  because  it  eased  her  poor 
feet.  Next  Georgie  massaged  the  tell-tale  ankles,  remonstrat- 
ing with  them,  but  more  gently  than  usual,  while  the  others 
ran  here  and  there,  calling  to  each  other  in  echoing  voices, 
and  collecting  wood  and  dry  bits  of  heather  for  the  fire. 
Joanna  was  always  happy  tending  a  fire,  and  the  boiling  of 
the  kettle  was  her  special  charge.  After  tea  they  even  for- 
bore to  object  when  Juley  read  out  to  them  from  Asia's  Mil- 
lions how  the  Gospel  was  spreading  among  mandarins. 

Yet  another  interval  of  reunion  was  to  remain  as  a  happy 
memory. 


OPENTHEDOOR  79 

It  had  been  raining  since  dawn,  but  towards  evening  the 
sky  cleared,  and  Linnet  suggested  that  they  should  all  go 
fishing  in  the  bay.  It  was  a  job  to  get  started,  but  once  down 
the  steep  lane  from  the  house  Juley  was  easy  to  manage. 
With  encouraging  cries  the  four  hauled  the  rowing-boat  down 
the  stony  beach:  and  Juley,  very  heavy  and  awkward,  was 
helped  aboard  from  the  little  jetty.  When  they  had  anchored 
over  the  fishing-ground,  quarreled  amicably  over  the  lines, 
and  baited  their  hooks,  the  mother  gazed  at  the  lingering  sun- 
set and  felt  that  Heaven  was  very  near  to  earth.  Memories 
of  the  early  days  of  her  motherhood  brought  happy  tears, 
and  she  turned  her  swimming  eyes  from  the  radiant  West  to 
her  full-grown  sons  and  daughters  beside  her.  Georgie  was 
exclaiming  excitedly  as  she  wound  in  the  jerking  line.  She  was 
sure  it  was  either  three  whiting  at  once  or  an  enormous  dog- 
fish which  Sholto  would  have  trouble  in  killing.  And  when  a 
very  small  but  vigorous  lythe  appeared  over  the  side  they  all 
shouted  with  laughter  at  her.  Joanna  caught  three  flounders 
running,  through  forgetting  to  pull  her  hooks  a  yard  up  from  the 
bottom ;  but  Juley  said  she  liked  flounders  better  than  whiting, 
and  was  going  to  have  these  cooked  for  supper  that  very  night. 
Linnet  had  no  luck  at  all,  and  kept  shifting  his  tackle  from 
one  side  to  the  other,  till  at  last  he  got  settled  in  the  bows  with 
his  norfolk-coated  back  to  his  mother,  and  she  noticed  how  like 
his  father  he  was  growing  about  the  shoulders,  one  hitched  a 
little  higher  than  the  other.  Sholto  astern,  held  his  line  be- 
tween his  knees.  Both  his  hands  were  busy  with  a  Jew's  harp. 
It  was,  he  said,  the  appropriate  instrument  for  the  son  of  a 
Mother  in  Israel! 

Then  as  the  deliberate  Northern  night  drew  on,  and  they 
began  to  feel  cold,  they  shipped  the  anchor  and  rowed  back, 
the  four  taking  an  oar  each.  Being  used  to  boats  since  they 
could  remember,  all  rowed  well.  At  the  end  of  each  stroke 
the  phosphorescence  streamed  from  their  blades  simultane- 
ously, and  went  swarming  like  millions  of  fireflies  into  the 
black  water.  And  keeping  time  with  their  strokes  the  Banner- 
mans  sang.  They  sang  "  A  Southerly  wind  and  a  Cloudy 
sky,"  and  many  old  rounds  and  catches  they  had  learned  in 
the  nursery  from  their  father — for  Sholto,  in  his  youth  had 
been  a  great  choir-member.  And  their  voices,  on  the  quiet 
stretch  of  hill-shadowed  loch,  sounded  very  happy,  very  youth- 
ful and  plaintive.  Juley  could  not  join  in  for  tears:  beside*. 


80  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

though  she  had  a  pretty  voice,  she  was  apt,  she  knew,  to  go 
out  of  tune,  and  she  would  not  for  anything  have  spoiled  her 
children's  singing. 


But  in  autumn,  with  Georgie  gone,  Mabel  again  in  Edin- 
burgh, and  the  old  life  in  Collessie  Street  resumed,  Joanna 
sank  into  a  kind  of  marasmus — a  wasting  without  fever  or 
apparent  disease. 

She  still  found  Bob's  behavior  quite  baffling,  and  spasmodi- 
cally the  hope  still  sprang  in  her  that  he  would  return  at 
length  with  some  undreamed-of  explanation.  But  here  was 
no  sustenance  for  life,  and  as  the  weeks  dragged  on  she  felt 
so  sore  and  lonely  that  she  would  even  have  welcomed  the 
return  of  Mabel* 


CHAPTER  VI 


ONE  day  upon  coming  into  the  house  she  found  a  letter 
waiting  for  her  on  the  lobby  table. 

She  knew  at  once  that  it  wasn't  from  Bob  (her  first  glance 
on  coming  in  was  always  at  the  lobby  table  in  case  there  might 
be  a  letter  from  him,  and  anything  else  was  a  disappointment). 
But  this  letter — or  rather  package — had  some  interest.  It 
was  rolled  up  carelessly  in  a  newspaper  wrapper,  stamped  with 
an  Italian  stamp,  and  marked  Manoscritti,  to  save  in  postage. 

She  would  have  opened  it  at  once,  but  her  hands  were  full, 
and  she  was  tired.  So  she  took  it  unopened  to  her  bedroom, 
and  threw  it  on  the  bed  while  she  rid  herself  of  her  outdoor 
clothes.  She  kicked  off  her  shoes  in  the  way  her  mother  never 
ceased  to  deplore,  tossed  her  hat  upon  the  chest  of  drawers,  and 
her  coat  across  a  chair. 

How  tired  she  was! 

Stooping  to  the  mirror  on  the  dressing  table,  and  thrusting 
back  her  hair  with  both  hands,  she  peered  at  her  face  in  the 
fading  light.  She  was  certainly  rather  white,  and  there  were 
blue,  pathetic  shadows  under  her  eyes. 

A  wave  of  self-pity  swept  over  her.  People  said  youth  was 
a  happy  time.  She  knew  better.  And  there  and  then  she 
determined  that  she  would  harbor  no  such  sentiment  in  old 
age. 

"  Don't  forget,"  she  adjured  herself — "  Don't  ever  let  your- 
self forget  that  when  you  were  young  you  were  very,  very 
unhappy."  And  throwing  herself  with  the  utmost  dejection 
upon  the  bed,  she  lay  there  staring  at  the  ceiling. 

Oh,  how  familiar  that  ceiling  was!  There  in  the  middle 
were  the  plugged-up  holes  in  the  plaster  showing  where  the 
trapeze  had  hung,  in  the  days  when  the  room  was  a  nursery. 
And  there  in  one  corner  was  a  net-work  of  cracks  like  a  map. 
Long  ago  Joanna  had  connected  this  net-work  with  her  mother's 
weekly  petition  at  prayers  for  "  India,  China  and  the  Distant 
Islands  of  the  Sea."  And  looking  at  it  now,  she  wished 

81 


82  OPENTHEDOOR 

vehemently  that  she  had  been  born  in  one  of  these  remote 
lands.  She  was  certain  that  no  one  in  China  or  the  Distant 
Isles  could  be  so  bereft  of  life  as  she.  Why,  in  India  girls 
married  at  twelve.  And  we  were  asked  to  be  sorry  for  them! 

As  she  stretched  out  her  arms  in  a  gesture  of  weariness,  the 
back  of  her  hand  came  against  the  forgotten  letter.  There  it 
was,  still  unopened! 

She  remained  supine:  she  would  -barely  admit  the  diver- 
sion: but  she  lost  not  a  moment  in  stripping  off  the  wrapper. 
And  in  no  time  then  she  was  sitting  upright  to  smooth  out  the 
flimsy  foreign  sheets  against  her  knee.  They  were  so  crossed 
and  re-crossed  as  to  be  legible  only  with  difficulty;  but  she 
had  glanced  at  the  end,  and  with  a  queer  little  shock  of  excite- 
ment had  discovered  who  the  writer  was. 

It  was  a  letter  from  Aunt  Perdy  in  Italy. 

After  some  re-shuffling  Joanna  found  the  beginning. 

"  My  dear  child  and  niece,"  she  read — 

"  You  will  no  doubt  be  surprised  to  hear  from  me,  and 
possibly  your  mother  will  be  displeased  at  my  writing.  But 
the  latter  cannot  be  helped;  and  as  for  the  former,  Life  is,  and 
ever  will  be  full  of  surprises  for  you  as  for  me.  How,  you  ask, 
do  I  know  this?  Ebbene,  as  we  say  here;  I  will  tell  you. 
This  morning  (it  is  now  evening,  and  from  my  lonely  cot  as  I 
write  I  can  see  the  sun  dropping  behind  my  beloved  Carraras 
like  a  ball  of  fire)  I  was  clearing  an  old  trunk  when  I  came 
upon  a  family  birthday  book.  To  refresh  my  memory  I  be- 
gan looking  through  it  (the  quotations  for  each  day  are  from 
our  dear  Robbie  Burns),  and  what  do  you  think  I  found? 
Why,  that  the  only  two  births  in  March  for  our  family  are 
yours  and  my  own.  Do  you  realize  what  that  means,  Joanna? 
No,  you  do  not.  But  your  Aunt  Perdy  will  tell  you;  for  she 
has  devoted  years  of  her  life  to  studying  the  wondrous  signs 
of  the  Zodiac.  And  March — the  month  of  Aries — The  Ram,  i.e. 
The  Lamb — is  the  most  mystical  month  of  the  twelve.  It 
is  in  March  that  the  earth  is  born  afresh  every  year.  Our 
Saviour  was  born  in  March,  not  in  December  as  is  vulgarly 
supposed  (though  I  will  not  go  into  that  now),  and  the  Chosen 
of  God — those  who  are  sent  into  the  world  to  teach  and  to 
suffer — Ah,  above  all,  my  Joanna,  to  Suffer — see  the  light  under 
the  celestial  dominion  of  The  Lamb  which  was  from  the 
Foundation  of  the  world.  To  Suffer,  but  also  to  Rejoice,  as 
those  born  in  any  of  the  other  months  know  not  joy." 


OPENTHEDOOR  83 

Here  followed  a  rough  diagram  of  the  Zodiacal  signs. 

"  This  then,"  ran  the  letter  again — "  is  why  I  write  to  you, 
of  all  my  kindred.  Though  you  are  of  a  younger  generation, 
and  I  doubt  not  that  whatever  you  have  heard  of  me  from  your 
deluded,  conventional  father  and  my  poor  weak  sister,  must 
have  prejudiced  you  against  me.  Probably  also  you  are  stupid. 
But  you  were  born  in  March;  and  this  gives  me  hope  that  my 
voice  will  pierce  through  all  the  falseness  and  deadness  enclos- 
ing a  sister  soul.  I  believe  that  some  day  you  will  come  out 
to  this  glorious  land  of  liberty,  and  sunshine,  this  refuge  of 
great-hearted  exiles  like  myself,  like  dear  Byron,  like  Shelley, 

and  a  host  of  others  to  whom  freedom  was  life ';  The 

letter  ended  with  a  fervent  if  indefinite  invitation. 

Joanna's  interest  was  excited.  She  resented  her  Aunt's 
disparagement  of  her  parents;  the  Zodiacal  Signs  did  not 
greatly  impress  her ;  but  she  was  roused  because  of  the  imme- 
diate echoing  of  her  own  nature  to  Aunt  Perdy's.  The  letter 
meant  to  her  far  more  than  it  said:  and  it  did  more  than  it 
meant.  It  opened  an  unsuspected  door  of  escape.  She  re- 
membered now,  of  a  sudden,  how  her  mother  had  sometimes 
sadly  remarked  upon  a  likeness  between  her  and  the  strange 
Aunt.  This  must  now  be  verified,  and  instantly. 

She  ran  downstairs  to  the  drawing-room.  And  there,  kneel-' 
ing  all  eagerness  before  the  inlaid  cabinet,  with  its  glass  doors 
at  either  side  displaying  missionary  trophies,  she  lifted  out  the 
family  album.  It  had  gilt-edged  boards  and  brass  clamps  and 
clasps,  and  lay  heavy  on  her  lap  as  she  opened  it. 

Yes,  here  was  Aunt  Perdy,  one  of  a  group  of  quaint  little 
girls  with  long  drawers  showing  under  their  funny  dresses. 
And  here  she  was,  coquettish  in  a  voluminous  riding-habit 
looped  up  in  half  a  dozen  places,  with  her  hair  in  a  net,  and  a 
tiny  billy-cock  hat  tipped  over  her  nose.  And  here  again  she 
looked  up  from  an  open  book,  her  chin  in  her  hand,  her  pretty 
elbow  on  a  fringed  table,  her  soul  in  her  eyes.  In  all  the  full- 
face  portraits,  the  eyes — rather  more  deeply  set  in  the  head 
than  Joanna's — were  remarkable,  oracular  in  their  intensity. 

Earnestly  searching  for  a  likeness  to  herself,  the  girl  found 
it  most  clear  in  a  carte-de-visite  photograph  in  which  her 
Aunt  was  looking  down  at  a  baby  on  her  knees,  while  a  little 
boy  (surely  Gerald?)  leaned  against  his  mother's  full  skirts, 
his  legs  in  their  striped  trousers  mannishly  crossed.  Here  the 
capricious  sunlight  had  proclaimed  the  resemblance  unmistak- 


84  OPEN    THE    DOOR 

ably,  and  Joanna  saw  that  it  was  one  of  contour  rather  than 
of  features.  There  was  a  faintly  Japanese  suggestion,  a  flat- 
ness of  structure.  It  must  have  been  this,  thought  Joanna, 
that  had  made  Nilsson,  one  of  the  Art  School  masters,  tell  her 
once  how  like  she  was  to  a  primitive  Siennese  painting. 

Then  as  she  still  searched  the  album,  an  idea  blazed  in  her 
mind.  She  would  learn  Italian!  Why  had  she  never  thought 
of  it  before?  The  word  Italy  had  always  held  for  her  even 
more  than  the  ordinary  measure  of  romance.  Juley's  eyes 
had  lightened  when  she  talked  to  her  children  of  Italy,  much 
as  they  lightened  when  she  talked  of  Heaven.  Grandpapa 
Erskine,  with  his  generous  theory  of  education,  had  taken 
his  motherless  daughters,  while  still  in  their  teens,  to  Rome. 
In  Rome  he  had  accepted  the  charge  of  the  Presbyterian 
church,  and  had  begun  to  write  his  life  of  Hildebrand.  In 
Rome,  later  on,  after  forming  many  ties  with  the  land  of  his 
adoption,  he  had  died.  There  were  cousins  of  Joanna's  in 
Italy  of  whom  she  knew  very  little.  Gerald  had  sisters  while 
another  Erskine — Aunt  Minnie — was  married  to  a  Frenchman, 
and  had  a  large  family  at  Turin.  They  never  came  to  Eng- 
land; but  they  sent  cards  and  photographs  at  Christmas  time, 
giving  glimpses  of  a  life  wonderfully  different  from  the  life 
in  Glasgow. 

And  now  had  come  this  voice  from  Italy,  claiming  Joanna 
out  of  all  the  connection  as  a  kindred  spirit.  Surely  it  was 
the  voice  of  life?  Surely  she  would  answer  it?  And  to  begin 
with,  she  would  go  to  the  Italian  class  at  the  University.  The 
session  was  just  beginning.  She  would  go  to  Gilmourhill  to 
make  sure,  that  very  afternoon. 


ii 

.  Still  enlivened  with  her  thoughts  she  approached  one  of  the 
southern  entrances  of  the  park  through  which  she  was  going 
to  the  University,  and  there  it  came  upon  her  with  surprise 
that  she  was  walking  amid  beauty.  The  October  day  was 
yielding  up  its  breath  in  faint,  dun-colored  vapors,  and  the 
poor  and  harsh  outlines  of  this  region  had  borrowed  for  the 
time  an  appealing  loveliness.  Church-spires — St.  Jude's  among 
them — and  tall  houses,  mysterious  at  their  bases,  rose  trium- 
phantly through  the  sullied  lower  air  to  the  serenely  brooding 
blue  above,  where  they  seemed  suspended.  And  away  to  the 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  85 

left  on  its  hill,  dominating  the  park,  the  Gothic  University 
stood  high  and  black  and  alien  against  the  sky. 

Before  entering  by  the  wide  iron  gates,  Joanna  paused  to 
look.  Here  too,  all  was  clothed  with  the  magic  of  the  hour. 
By  day,  a  squalid,  railed  enclosure  where  growing  things  found 
a  precarious  life,  the  park  showed  itself  now  as  a  place  of  won- 
der, a  dim  paradise,  which,  as  the  evening  deepened,  would 
become  murmurous  with  lovers. 

In  her  full  response,  the  girl  drew  an  audible  breath  of 
delight  and  entered.  After  all  it  was  good  at  this  moment 
just  to  be  alive,  just  to  breathe.  The  desire  came  upon  her  for 
liberated  movement — the  deep-set  human  longing  for  wings. 
If  only  one  could  flit,  swift  and  noiseless  through  the  haze. 
She  glanced  behind  her.  It  was  barely  the  hour  for  lovers. 
No  one  was  in  sight. 

She  chose  one  of  the  higher  terraces  on  her  right,  where 
many  a  time  as  a  child  she  had  bowled  a  hoop;  and  started 
to  run.  Her  feet  made  hardly  any  sound  speeding  along  the 
path  of  hard  earth,  and  her  light  balanced  body  was  exonerated 
in  its  flight  through  the  dusk. 

But  before  reaching  the  flagstaff  and  the  group  of  Crimean 
guns  that  threaten  the  University  from  their  height,  she  sat 
down  on  a  bench  and  stayed  there  motionless  awhile.  From 
here  she  overlooked  the  whole  park.  Behind  her  curved  the 
topmost  terrace,  with  its  stone  balustrade  and  its  crown  of 
steep  French  roofs.  Below,  lay  the  level  murkiness  where 
moving  water  was,  and  captive  wild  birds  uttered  disturbing 
cries.  Triple  globes  marked  where  the  new  granite  bridge 
spanned  the  Kelvin,  and  in  places  a  pair  of  yellow  lamps 
showed  how  a  cab  threaded  one  of  the  wider  ways.  It  was  a 
little  world  to  itself,  shut  in  and  stuporose.  But  beyond  it  to 
the  south,  where  a  brilliant  segment  of  light  marked  its  con- 
fines, Joanna  could  see  where  the  real  world  began.  Nay,  she 
could  hear,  coming  from  the  Clyde  across  all  that  distance  yet 
as  if  it  were  the  beating  of  her  own  heart  the  dull,  steady 
pounding  of  the  yards. 

But  when  the  first  quiverings  of  pleasure  were  subsided,  the 
beauty  and  pathos  of  her  surroundings  became  a  trouble  to 
her,  and  she  wondered,  as  she  had  wondered  countless  times 
before,  why  this  should  be.  Why  was  she  not  content  simply 
to  admire  and  enjoy  loveliness  when  she  had  perceived  it? 
Why  must  she  suffer  from  the  desire,  herself,  to  be  or  do  some 


86  OPENTHEDOOR 

loveliness?  What  was  this  ever  thwarted  need  of  her  being 
to  give  itself  utterly  to  the  achievement  of  she  knew  not  what? 
She  recalled  her  mother's  words  years  ago,  on  seeing  the  Clyde 
shipping  in  sunshine,  "  Let  us  make  our  lives  to  match  it." 
And  passionately  Joanna  wanted  to  conform  to  loveliness. 
She  longed  to  be  in  harmony  with  the  beauty  she  had  always 
worshiped.  But  how?  Perhaps,  as  Dr.  Ranken  had  so  often 
used  his  pulpit  to  say,  this  desire  ever  unfulfilled,  and  this 
oppression,  proved  that  her  home  was  in  heaven,  not  on  earth. 
Her  mother,  she  knew,  believed  this.  And  was  there  not 
something  in  one's  soul  which  proclaimed  it  to  be  true? 

She  rose  slowly.  She  was  tired  again,  and  unhappy  and 
the  evening  was  barren  of  magic.  Still  with  a  certain  saving 
stolidity  she  persevered  in  her  resolution  and  walked  on  to  the 
University. 

There  she  learned  that  she  was  too  late,  as  the  matriculation 
office  was  closed  for  the  day.  It  was  scarcely  a  disappointment. 

On  her  way  out,  walking  listlessly  through  the  quadrangle 
where  the  professors  live,  she  heard  behind  her  the  footsteps 
of  some  one  gaining  on  her,  and  before  she  had  reached  the 
postern,  a  man  passed  her  stepping  quickly  in  the  dusk.  She 
saw  that  he  was  smallish,  and  slight,  that  he  wore  no  overcoat; 
and  something  foreign  about  his  alert  figure  drew  her  atten- 
tion. The  next  moment,  as  if  in  response  to  this,  the  stranger 
turned  his  head,  and  regarded  her  fixedly.  Thereupon  Joanna's 
observation  ceased  to  be  conscious.  She  had  become  too 
acutely  aware  of  herself  under  his  curiously  frank  scrutiny. 

She  carried  home  with  her  the  impression  of  a  white,  small- 
featured  face  that  seemed  scornfully  alive.  The  man  must  be 
a  foreigner — probably  an  Italian.  Who  else  should  he  be  but 
Cellebrini,  the  Italian  lecturer,  whom,  as  it  happened,  she 
did  not  know  by  sight?  The  certainty  that  he  could  be  none 
other,  quickened  her  failing  resolve  to  join  the  class  of  which 
he  was  the  teacher. 

m 

On  the  opening  day,  a  week  later,  she  arrived  ten  minutes 
before  the  hour  of  the  lesson  to  find  herself  alone  with  one 
young  man  amid  a  shabby  expanse  of  benches.  Both  fellow 
students  were  too  shy  to  speak,  and  Joanna  observing  no  more 
than  that  her  companion  was  dark  and  bashful  chose  a  place 
at  some  distance  from  him.  The  ordinary  University  youth 


OPENTHEDOOR  87 

did  not  interest  her,  even  while  he  might  embarrass  her;  and 
she  gazed  with  suppressed  excitement  at  the  dusty  Gothic 
window  panes  on  which  flaws  of  rain  were  appearing. 

There  was  no  doubt  in  her  mind  that  the  lecturer  would  be 
the  stranger  who  had  stared  at  her  by  the  gate. 

Presently  a  third  person  came  in,  and  Joanna  recognized  a 
Mrs.  Lovatt  to  whom  she  had  been  introduced  not  long  ago 
at  an  evening  entertainment  at  the  Art  School.  Mrs.  Lovatt, 
a  great  friend  of  the  Director,  was  a  patron  of  the  arts  and 
a  well-known  figure  in  the  West  End.  Joanna  blushed  with 
pleasure  now  when  the  little  woman  greeted  her  unhesitatingly. 

"  I've  forgotten  your  name,"  she  said.  "  But  I  remember 
quite  well  being  introduced  to  you  by  my  friend  Val  Plum- 
mer."  And  she  sat  down  by  Joanna  bemoaning  the  size  of 
the  class.  She  was  a  middle-aged  woman,  but  girlish  looking, 
with  very  bright  eyes  in  her  wrinkled,  pretty  face.  Under  a 
soft  gray  felt  hat,  her  gray  hair  showed  in  a  becoming  dis- 
order, and  with  her  gray,  flowing  clothes,  she  looked  like  a 
disheveled,  but  attractive  and  perfectly  composed  little  gray 
mouse.  She  remembered  admiring  Joanna's  appearance,  and 
studied  her  now  with  bright  approval,  and  also  with  what 
Joanna  felt  to  be  a  touch  of  amused  criticism.  Without  know- 
ing it,  the  girl  coveted  the  elder  woman's  ease  and  her  general 
air  of  experience. 

The  next  to  arrive  was  the  lecturer,  and  as  he  stepped  up 
to  the  rostrum  Joanna  looked  up  eagerly.  The  disappoint- 
ment was  intense.  There,  standing  above  her  was  an  emaci- 
ated, tall  old  man,  bearded  and  rather  bent.  Surely  there 
was  some  mistake!  Surely  Dr.  Cellebrini — the  real  Dr.  Cel- 
lebrini — must  be  ill,  and  this  old  man  had  come  to  tell  them 
so.  So  firm  was  her  dream  that  it  had  to  persist  a  little  in 
the  face  of  reality.  But  next  instant  she  knew  that  there 
had  been  no  mistake  except  her  own.  She  had  believed, 
because  she  had  so  strongly  desired  the  likely  thing  to  be  true. 

There  was  no  lecture  that  day,  and  Dr.  Cellebrini  told  them 
that  unless  at  least  six  students  were  forthcoming,  there  could 
be  no  class  that  session.  This  had  been  decided  by  the 
Senate.  He  took  down  their  names,  however,  and  Joanna 
learned  that  Mrs.  Lovatt's  Christian  name  was  Mildred.  The 
dark  boy,  who  mumbled  his  name  with  a  Scotch  tongue  was 
called  Lawrence  Urquhart. 

He  left  the  class-room  while  Joanna  was  helping  Mrs.  Lovatt 


88  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

to  collect  her  scattered  belongings.  Some  colored  beads  had 
rolled  out  of  a  leather  wallet  on  to  the  floor,  and  the  two 
in  picking  them  up  became  still  more  friendly.  Mrs.  Lovatt 
hoped  that  Joanna  would  come  to  one  of  her  informal  Friday 
evenings,  and  if  no  more  students  turned  up  she  had  the  idea 
of  having  an  Italian  class  in  her  own  house. 

They  went  out  together,  and  as  they  passed  from  the  dark- 
ness of  the  cloisters  to  daylight,  the  sound  of  a  door  closing 
made  them  both  look  back.  Between  the  broad,  stone  pillars 
a  man  was  hastening  in  their  direction.  Joanna  could  not 
see  his  face,  but  she  knew  him  instantly  for  her  foreigner. 

"  It  is  Rasponi,  isn't  it?  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Lovatt,  screwing 
up  short-sighted  eyes.  "  The  very  man  I  want  to  speak  to." 
And  leaving  her  companion,  she  ran  impulsively  towards  the 
Italian. 

Joanna  was  shaken,  and  she  became  half  dead  with  embar- 
rassment. Should  she  go  slowly  on?  Should  she  wait? 
Should  she  hurry  off?  No  doubt  the  right  thing  would  be 
for  her  simply  to  disappear.  But  her  fiercer  longing  chained 
her  feet  to  the  spot ;  and  in  a  few  seconds  she  was  joined  by  the 
others. 

On  the  first  meeting  of  their  eyes,  Joanna  saw  that  recogni- 
tion danced  in  Rasponi's,  and  something  besides  recognition. 
As  her  name  was  made  known  to  him  he  smiled,  showing  a 
line  of  short,  milk-white  teeth,  and  his  hand  flew  uncontrollably 
to  his  little  black  mustache.  His  face  in  the  daylight  was 
not  so  much  white,  Joanna  saw,  as  ivory,  with  fine,  carven 
features,  and  remarkable  eyelids.  There  was  something  of 
the  hardness  of  ivory  in  him  too;  and  under  the  loose  gray 
tweeds  he  was  wearing,  she  knew  his  body  was  like  a  coiled 
spring  of  steel.  He  was  energy  itself,  but  energy  pent,  not 
radiant.  Joanna  had  never  been  so  aware  of  anything:  had 
never  imagined  anything  so  living.  She  was  acutely  disquieted 
by  his  nearness. 

In  the  quandrangle  he  excused  himself  for  a  moment,  as  he 
wished  to  hand  in  a  note  at  a  professor's  house.  The  two 
women  walked  on  slowly. 

"  Isn't  he  beautiful?  "  Mildred  Lovatt  turned  twinkling  to 
her  companion.  "  And  a  genius  as  well.  It  seems  too  much 
for  one  man!  " 

Joanna,  startled,  had  no  response  ready.  Did  one  call  men 
"  beautiful?  "  Women  were  beautiful  of  course.  But  men — 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  89 

with  their  hairy  ankles? — and  he  was  a  genius  as  well.  This 
meant  an  artist  of  some  kind  no  doubt.  To  conceal  her  con- 
fusion she  asked  what  he  did. 

Mrs.  Lovatt  was  suprised  at  the  other's  ignorance. 

"  Don't  tell  me  you  haven't  seen  him  racing  about  the  roads 
on  that  diabolical  bicycle  of  his?  "  she  exclaimed.  "  I  should 
have  thought  everybody  in  Glasgow  must  know  him  by  now." 
And  she  told  how  Rasponi  had  fitted  one  of  the  new  internal 
combustion  engines  to  a  specially  strong  bicycle  of  his  own 
design:  and  how  he  was  doing  research  work  at  the  University 
in  connection  with  a  new  machine  for  flying. 

"  People  laugh  at  him,"  she  ended.  "  But  I'm  convinced, 
myself,  that  he'll  succeed  in  time.  He'll  either  fly  or  break 
his  neck — perhaps  both!  " 

After  Rasponi  had  come  up  with  them  again,  they  stood 
talking  for  a  minute  by  the  postern  at  the  very  spot  where 
Joanna  and  he  had  first  looked  at  each  other. 

When  Mrs.  Lovatt  had  spoken  of  the  small  Italian  class,  he 
turned  to  Joanna. 

"  You  already  know  some  Italian  perhaps,  eh? "  His 
English  had  the  exaggerated  precision  of  the  foreigner.  It 
was  not  broken,  but  over-perfect. 

Joanna  shook  her  head;  and  smiling  he  moved  his  eyes  to 
Mrs.  Lovatt. 

"  Yet  Miss  Bannerman  looks  more  Italian  than  I,  though 
so  fair.  Do  j'ou  not  see  it?  "  he  asked  her.  "  Modern  Italian 
perhaps  no.  But  of  the  Seicento.  Why,  there  is  her  por- 
trait in  London  in  your  National  Gallery,  by  a  painter  of  the 
Venetian  School — Bernardino  Licinio,  I  think  it  is.  You  know 
it?  But  surely?  The  portrait  of  a  young  man,  it  calls  itself, 
but  I  have  always  doubted  it,  and  it  pleases  me  to  have  my 
doubts  confirmed." 

Mrs.  Lovatt,  her  head  on  one  side,  looked  at  Joanna  and 
tried  to  remember  the  picture  he  described.  She  was  not 
successful,  but  agreed  warmly  that  Miss  Bannerman  had 
struck  her  from  the  first  as  quite  Early-Italian.  Botticelli, 
she  thought — or  was  it  Luini? — there  was  surely  an  angel 
wonderfully  like  her  in  one  of  Leonardo's  groups? 

Unaccustomed  to  such  talk,  the  young  woman  felt  herself 
redden  furiously.  Nor  was  she  spared  by  Rasponi.  His 
eyes  seemed  to  search  her  face:  then  they  dwelt  on  her  breast: 
then  sought  her  feet.  When  Mrs.  Lovatt  had  invited  them 


90  OPEN   THE    DOOR 

both  to  have  tea  at  her  house  one  day  soon,  there  seemed  of  a 
sudden  no  more  to  say. 

Joanna  took  leave  of  them  somehow. 


rv 

In  spite  of  its  meager  beginnings  the  Italian  class  prospered. 
There  came  to  be  seven  students  in  all.  But  the  original 
three  remained  slightly  apart  from  the  rest  in  a  vague  fellow- 
ship of  their  own;  and  they  greeted  each  other  with  a  special 
friendliness. 

Lawrence  Urquhart  was  so  manifestly  glad  to  be  included, 
that  Mrs.  Lovatt  in  the  kindness  of  her  heart,  invited  him  also 
to  tea,  and  she  liked  the  shy  eagerness  of  his  acceptance.  His 
oddly  featured,  dark  face  pleased  her  too,  now  that  she  came 
to  look  at  it. 

"  Have  you  noticed  what  engaging  eyes  the  creature  has?  " 
she  asked  Joanna;  "they  are  pretty  often  turned  in  your 
direction." 

But  Joanna  almost  resented  words  that  once  would  have 
flattered  her.  She  was  absorbed  by  the  emotions  Rasponi  had 
aroused. 

From  the  first  he  had  sought  her  openly,  and  the  whole 
face  of  her  life  was  changed. 

On  the  second  day  of  the  Italian  class  she  had  found  him 
waiting  for  her  by  the  gate.  He  had  moved  to  meet  her, 
sweeping  off  his  hat  with  a  gesture  she  would  have  found  ridic- 
ulous in  another  man.  But  as  he  did  it,  it  seemed  beautifully 
to  place  power  in  her  hands. 

"  It  has  cleared  after  the  rain,"  he  said.  "  Do  you  go  down 
the  hill  and  through  the  park?  If  so  that  is  my  way  also. 
My  lodging  is  on  the  other  side.  May  I  go  with  you  as  far  as 
our  way  lies  together?  " 

Joanna  had  meant  to  walk  through  the  park;  but  suddenly 
feeling  flight  to  be  imperative,  she  lied,  saying  that  to-day  she 
must  take  the  nearer  tram  home. 

Rasponi  gave  a  faint  shrug  which  combined  disappointment 
with  resignation. 

"  May  I  come  then  as  far  as  the  terminus  with  you?  "  he 
said. 

To  this  there  seemed  only  one  possible  reply,  and  she  gave 
an  unskilful  assent,  trying  hard  not  to  appear  as  raw  and 


OPENTHEDOOR  91 

school-girlish  as  she  felt.  The  Southerner  appeared  to  her  a 
creature  incapable  of  awkwardness.  Passionately  she  wished 
that  her  upbringing  had  been  more  gracious. 

At  the  park  entrance,  which  was  also  the  stopping-place 
for  Joanna's  tram,  three  street  musicians  were  tuning  up. 
There  was  a  harpist  on  a  camp  stool,  a  standing  fiddler,  and  a 
cripple  in  a  wheeled  chair,  with  a  rug  hiding  his  legs.  They 
had  settled  themselves  in  the  corner  made  by  a  church  and 
the  park  railings,  and  instinctively  Raspopj  and  Joanna  paused, 
waiting  for  them  to  strike  up. 

Joanna  glanced  back  towards  the  University.  At  the  top 
of  Gilmourhill  where  the  road  cuts  the  sunset  across,  two 
cyclists  had  that  moment  mounted  from  the  far  side.  Their 
figures,  poised  in  the  golden  air  of  the  summit  stayed  for  a 
breath,  suspended  as  by  a  miracle.  Then  their  machines 
swept  downwards.  There  was  a  rush  of  wind,  a  shrill  whirring 
of  bells,  and  they  disappeared  round  the  curve  of  the  tram- 
lines. 

And  that  same  instant,  as  if  by  conspiracy,  the  little  band 
by  the  gates  broke  into  dance  music. 

In  the  girl  something  was  set  free,  and  her  heart  exulted. 

"  No  wonder  Pilcher  chose  this  hill  to  test  his  gliders." 

She  looked  at  Rasponi  to  discover  the  meaning  of  his  remark. 
He  too  was  staring  back  up  the  way  they  had  come,  but  his 
eyes  shone  with  purpose. 

"  Perhaps  you  saw  him  trying  them?  "  he  continued. 
"  It  must  be  about  five  years  since  his  Glasgow  experiments. 
A  good  man,  that  Pilcher." 

But  Joanna  had  not  heard  of  Pilcher  till  now.  She  felt 
ashamed  under  Rasponi 's  incredulous  glance,  and  was  relieved 
when  he  put  the  subject  aside. 

There  was  still  no  car  at  the  terminus.  The  harpist  was 
thrumming  diligently,  the  fiddler  swayed  as  he  tore  the  insistent 
melody  out  of  his  instrument,  the  defornled  man  in  the  chair 
gave  forth  the  same  air  more  delicately  on  a  flute.  They 
played  well,  and  Joanna  stood  with  Rasponi  to  hear  the  valse 
out. 

"Ah!     You  see  that?" 

This  exclamation,  vibrating  and  jubilant,  was  drawn  from 
her  companion  by  an  action  of  the  busy  little  flautist.  He 
had  swiftly  exchanged  his  flute  for  a  handful  of  bound  reeds 
lying  concealed  on  his  knees,  and  at  a  recurring  phrase  of  the 


92  OPEN   THE    DOOR 

melody  he  blew  into  the  Pan-pipes,  drawing  them  sharply 
back  and  forwards  against  his  lips. 

"  Now  we  know  why  he  has  to  hide  his  feet!  "  said  Rasponi. 
And  this  time  Joanna  understood.  He  had  moved  closer  to 
her  under  cover  of  the  music.  He  spoke  low,  intimately. 

She  nodded,  smiling  too,  and  their  eyes  met.  Elated  the 
Italian  was  twisting  up  his  mustache  and  for  the  first  time 
the  girl  saw  his  narrow,  rapacious  lips.  Ah!  yes,  Mrs.  Lovatt 
was  right.  Beautiful  he  was — fine — gem-like.  Yet  for  all 
his  delicate,  glittering  quality,  more  male  than  any  other  man 
she  had  yet  seen. 

Immediately  the  car  came  she  moved  towards  it,  though 
before  it  could  start,  the  trolley-pole  would  have  to  be  changed 
round.  Rasponi  saw  her  into  it,  lifted  his  hat,  and  to  her 
surprise  went  off  at  once.  He  did  not  even  turn  around.  She 
would  have  given  anything  to  be  by  his  side,  but  was  com- 
mitted to  her  perverse  choice.  She  watched  him  till  he  was 
no  more  than  a  speck  near  the  central  fountain. 


Looking  back  afterwards  she  was  no  more  able  to  trace 
the  hurried  sequence  of  events  which  led  to  her  marriage  with 
Mario  Rasponi,  than  one  is  able  to  relate  the  procession  of 
incidents  in  a  dream.  Indeed  it  took  its  place  appropriately 
in  what  was  still  a  dream  life.  Outwardly  there  was  an  admir- 
able semblance  of  intention,  even  of  calm.  But  the  girl  was 
not  yet  near  waking,  and  she  proceeded  in  a  kind  of  deliberate 
trance  which  brooked  neither  interference  from  without,  nor 
direction  by  her  own  shrouded  intelligence. 

One  of  the  strangest  things  in  the  strange  business  was  that 
Mario  never  persuaded  her  into  saying  that  she  loved  him. 
She  was  captured  by  his  ardor;  and  after  the  first  weak 
resistance  worked,  defiant  of  opposition,  for  their  speedy 
marriage.  But  often  she  still  cried  at  nights  for  Bob,  and 
felt  as  if  she  must  go  mad  in  her  renewed  efforts  towards  under- 
standing him.  Twice  she  wrote  to  him.  Surely  if  there  was 
a  scrap  of  real  feeling  in  him  for  her,  it  would  show  now? 
But  he  remained  aloof?  He  begged  her  to  be  sure  of  her  own 
mind,  wished  her  good  luck,  whatever  her  decision.  In  spite 
of  this,  Joanna  would  have  gone  to  him  had  he  been  in 
England.  She  believed  that  a  sight  of  his  face  might  have 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  93 

held  her  firm  against  Mario.  But  while  awaiting  the  result 
of  his  examination,  he  was  with  his  father  in  Germany. 
And  all  the  time  Mario's  onslaught  continued. 
The  researches  which  had  brought  him  to  Glasgow  were 
complete.  He  wanted  to  get  back  to  Italy  where  there  was 
work  after  his  own  heart  for  the  asking ;  and  he  was  set  on  tak- 
ing Joanna  with  him  whether  he  won  her  love  or  not.  His 
judgment  told  him  that  her  quick  consent  was  a  likelihood: 
for  love  there  would  be  time  enough  later.  Actually  he  pre- 
ferred it  so.  It  satisfied  an  insane  violence  that  was  part  of 
him. 

To  Juley  he  was  attentive  and  affectionate  in  a  bright  filial 
way  which  gave  her  great  pleasure.  He  enlivened  her,  and 
she  felt  at  home  with  him  as  she  did  always  with  foreigners. 
She  loved  airing  her  rusty  Italian  while  he  praised  her  intona- 
tion. His  enthusiasm,  his  clear  unworldiness  warmed  her 
heart.  They  had  long  and  on  her  side  impassionate  talks 
about  the  persecution  of  the  Jews  in  Russia.  She  was  delighted 
with  his  interest  in  politics.  She  was  still  more  delighted  that 
he  enjoyed  her  society.  Here  was  a  young,  clever  man  who 
did  not  fight  shy  of  her. 

At  first  Joanna  wondered  that  her  mother  made  so  light  of 
Mario's  frank  irreligion.  Was  it  possible  that  one  to  whom 
faith  was  everything,  could  overlook  its  absence  in  a  son-in- 
law?  Yet  the  explanation  was  simple.  Rasponi  came  of  a 
strict  Catholic  family  (one  of  his  uncles  was  a  Cardinal),  and 
the  fact  that  he  had  broken  with  the  Church  of  Rome  was  by 
Juley  accounted  to  him  for  righteousness. 

Then  there  were  the  rides  he  gave  her.  He  had  rigged  up  a 
wicker  trailer,  and  attached  it  to  that  amazing  machine  of  his 
which  Juley  would  insist  on  calling  the  velocipede.  She 
enjoyed  every  moment  of  the  velocipede,  from  its  arrival  at 
the  front  door.  She  liked  to  feel  the  neighbors  at  their  win- 
dows while  Mario  was  tucking  her  in.  She  smiled  happily  at 
the  little  crowd  of  children  who  gathered  around;  and  when 
he  rang  his  bell,  and  took  her  slowly  down  the  long  slope  to 
Woodlands  Road  and  back  again,  she  was  in  raptures.  Each 
time  they  went  out  thus  her  wonder  was  new.  She  could  not 
grow  accustomed  to  it. 

But  she  would  not  hear  about  his  flying. 
"  If  we  had  been  meant  to  fly,"  she  said,  looking  sorrowfully 
at    him,    "  God    would   have    given    us    wings."     And   she 


94  OPEN    THE    DOOR 

refused  to  listen  to  his  ready  arguments.     So  he  let  her  be. 

To  Joanna  he  spoke  little  of  his  work,  but  much  of  woman's 
place  in  the  scheme  of  things.  He  laughed  to  scorn  her  ideas 
of  companionship  between  man  and  woman. 

"  Do  you  think  I  would  choose  you,"  he  exclaimed,  one 
day,  "  if  I  wished  for  a  companion?  You,  a  little,  ignorant 
girl  from  Glasgow,  with  no  experience  of  life,  no  knowledge 
of  what  most  interests  me — machinery:  no  intellect  to  speak 
of?  Why,  you  don't  even  know  my  language!  Some  day — 
say  twenty  years  hence, — when  you  have  learned  all  I  have 
to  teach  you,  you  may  be  a  fit  companion  for  a  man,  and  then 
only  perhaps.  But  by  then  you  will  have  lost  what  now  sets 
my  heart  on  fire.  Companion!  My  poor  baby,  you  do  not 
know  what  you  are  talking  of!  and  what  it  is  you  want,  you 
still  less  know.  Would  you  be  here  with  me  now,  dropping 
your  eyes  before  the  desire  in  mine,  if  we  were  companions? 
I  think  not." 

Joanna  and  he  were  having  tea  at  a  little  wayside  hotel  to 
which  he  had  brought  her  in  his  trailer.  The  country  air  had 
reddened  her  cheeks,  but  Mario  was  whiter  than  ever,  and 
his  eyes  danced  dark  and  fanatical  in  his  head.  The  girl  had 
no  answer  ready  to  his  tirade,  and  he  expected  none.  He 
continued. 

"  You  and  your  Bob  may  be  companions  if  you  please. 
Both  of  you  free  to  come  and  go,  to  take  other  companions — 
as  many  as  you  like — to  live  apart,  to  discuss  this  theory 
and  that  when  you  meet.  Very  good.  You  might  have  his 
companionship.  Does  it  satisfy  you?  " 

Rolling  her  bread  into  balls  on  the  table-cloth,  Joanna  tried 
to  collect  her  scattered  forces.  She  could  never  stand  up 
to  Mario  in  argument,  and  was  so  perturbed  under  his  glance 
that  her  ideas  seemed  to  melt  like  snow  wreaths  near  a  bon- 
fire. 

"  Can't  one  have  the  two  things  together?  "  she  appealed 
to  him,  timidly. 

"In  theory  perhaps,"  he  replied;  and  as  he  spoke  he  but- 
toned up  with  an  air  of  finality,  the  high  collar  of  his  leather 
coat,  "  but  not  in  practice.  Not  at  least  when  I  am  the  man, 
and  you  the  woman.  There  is  at  this  moment  a  man  at  the 
corner  table  who  has  been  looking  at  you,  and  I  want  to  kill 
him  for  daring  to  do  so.  Is  that  companionship?  Nal 
Let  us  go  back.  Waiter,  the  bill!  " 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  95 

As  the  two  left  the  room,  Mario,  holding  the  door  open  for 
her,  glared  at  the  man  in  the  corner.  He  was  an  inoffensive 
young  fellow,  who  had  been  struck,  not  really  so  much  by 
Joanna  as  by  the  atmosphere  engendered  by  the  couple.  The 
moment  they  had  gone  the  other  people  in  the  room  began 
to  discuss  them. 

Another  of  their  talks  was  in  the  park.  It  was  strange 
how  in  Joanna's  emotions  the  park  came  to  be  associated 
with  Mario,  as  the  Botanic  Gardens  were  with  Bob.  And  in 
the  same  way  the  two  wooings  were  bound  up  with  their 
seasons.  Bob's  young  love,  so  confused  and  pathetic,  had 
been  in  the  early  spring;  Mario's  was  in  the  late  autumn. 
And  autumn  even  more  than  spring  is  disturbing  to  those 
who  give  themselves  readily  to  Nature's  impulses.  For  if  in 
spring  we  are  pierced  by  the  innumerable  points  of  flame  which 
dart  skywards  from  the  ground,  in  autumn  our  senses  are  more 
subtly  assailed.  For  passion's  sake  then,  the  earth  's  laying 
aside  her  ornaments.  There  is  a  new  restlessness  and  rapture 
of  bird  life,  a  new  sense  of  disquiet  and  elation.  The  wooded 
places  are  full  of  the  intoxicating  smolder  of  fecundity. 

On  this  November  evening,  traces  of  a  recent  hail-shower 
still  gleamed  on  the  black  railings,  on  the  slopes  of  grass,  on 
the  dark-bodied  trees,  each  standing  in  the  circle  of  its  own 
lovely  droppings.  The  naked  sky,  lofty  and  compassionate, 
flung  its  arch  over  a  glittering  world.  And  in  that  arch, 
incredibly  remote,  ineffably  pure,  hung  the  pale  waxing  moon 
like  a  beaker  of  fretted  silver.  To  the  right  of  the  path 
chosen  by  Mario  and  Joanna,  a  tree  crowned  with  a  top- 
knot of  ivy  sheltered  a  noisy  tribe  of  starlings.  It  swayed 
gently  under  the  birds  impetuous  communings.  Over  the 
pink  granite  bridge  swung  a  glossy  private  carriage  drawn  by  a 
pair  of  bays,  and  Mario  pulled  Joanna  aside  so  that  she 
should  not  be  spattered  by  the  mud  which  lay  thick  on  the 
road. 

Having  crossed  the  river  the  two  climbed  the  further 
hill.  Here  and  there  were  seats  on  little  semi-circular  terraces 
facing  the  University,  and  on  one  of  these  they  sat  down. 
Mario,  as  usual  spoks  first. 

"  How  like  olives  those  are,  except  for  the  color,"  he  said. 
"  Are  they  not?  "  He  was  pointing  to  a  group  of  small,  dis- 
torted trees  on  the  slope  below  them. 

"  I've  never  seen  olive  trees." 


96  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

"  No?  But  you  shall,  and  soon.  Yes,  as  soon  as  possible." 
Mario  spoke  meditatively,  as  if  calculating,  and  his  eyes  did 
not  leave  the  trees.  The  girl  wondered  at  his  prolonged 
interest  in  them. 

"  What  kind  of  trees  are  they?  "  he  asked  her. 

Joanna  didn't  know. 

Now  he  looked  at  her.    "  Do  you  know  anything?  " 

Joanna  crimsoned.  Truly,  beside  this  man  she  felt  her 
ignorance.  But  deeper  than  her  shame  was  the  sensual 
gratification  of  this  inferiority. 

"  That  one  is  a  willow,  I  know,"  she  said,  pointing  to  a 
nearer  tree.  Its  long  pliant  boughs  trailed  their  ends  on  the 
grass  all  round  it,  hiding  the  central  stem.  "  Isn't  it  like  a 
cage?  " 

"A  cage,  yes,"  he  agreed;  and  again  he  turned  his  eyes 
from  the  tree  to  Joanna's  face. 

"  How  would  you  like  to  live  in  a  cage,  a  cage  full  of  sun- 
shine and  beauty  and  delight,  a  cage  of  which  the  man  you 
loved  kept  the  key?  " 

"I  don't  think  I  should  like  it,  thank  you." 

"  Why  not?  " 

"  A  cage  is  a  prison,  isn't  it?  " 

"  A  prison!  "  Mario  made  a  gesture  of  despair.  "  Oh! 
you  English  women  with  your  phrases." 

"I'm  not  English,  I'm  Scotch." 

"Well  you  Scottish  women  with  your  theories!  Tell  me 
what  are  the  things  in  the  world  of  best  to  a  woman? 
Are  they  not  air,  light,  gaiety,  love,  ease,  shelter  from  the 
brutalities  of  life,  children,  tenderness,  adoration?  Does  this 
freedom  you  talk  of  secure  these?  Does  it  not  in  reality 
make  them  impossible.  Tell  me,  you  learned  little  girl  of 
Glasgow,  will  freedom  give  you  what  you  hunger  for?  Look 
at  me,  and  tell  me." 

But  Joanna  stared  persistently  at  the  willow. 
«.    "  Look  at  me,"  he  repeated. 

"Why  should  I  look  at  you,"  she  opposed  him  with  low- 
voiced  obstinacy,  "  if  I  want  to  go  on  looking  at  the  tree?  " 
Her  words  sounded  to  her  indescribably  childish  and  silly, 
but  she  was  near  to  tears. 

"  You  are  afraid  to  look  at  me,"  said  Mario ;  and  the  old 
taunt  succeeded.  Joanna  turned  her  face  to  him.  More 
beautiful  she  was  to  him  then  than  any  picture  he  had  formed 


OPEN    THE    DOOR 

of  her.    He  leaned  nearer  gripping  the  back  of  the  bench  with 
one  hand. 

"  I  feel  as  if  once,  centuries  ago,  I  had  kept  you  in  a  cage, 
and  you  liked  it,"  he  said.  "  And  so  that  I  might  have  your 
portrait  painted,  without  the  painter  falling  in  love  with 
you,  I  dressed  you  as  a  young  man.  I  shall  take  you  to  see 
that  portrait  in  London;  and  later  when  we  go  to  Italy  to- 
gether, I  shall  get  Maddalena,  my  sister,  to  make  you  a  suit 
df  black  cloth  with  a  linen  chemise  open  at  the  neck,  like  the 
girl  in  the  picture.  Maddalena  is  clever  at  dress.  She  will 
teach  you  also  how  to  clothe  yourself  as  a  woman;  for  even  in 
this  you  are  ignorant.  The  coat  you  wear  now  is  so  hideous, 
I  shudder  at  it.  Yes,  Maddalena  shall  teach  you  much.  But 
I  shall  teach  you  more.  Then,  after  many  years,  when  at 
last  your  youth  is  gone  and  your  beauty,  you  will  be  a  fit 
companion  for  men.  What  do  you  say?  Will  you  stay  and 
go  to  school  there?  " — Mario's  voice  rose  as  he  waved  an 
arm  at  the  darkening  University.  "  Or  will  you  come  away 
and  learn  from  me?  There  you  will  have  books  and  bones. 
Here  with  me " — touching  his  breast — "  you  will  have  all 
that  is  of  value,  in  either  books  or  bones — you  will  have  life. 
And  very  soon  you  must  decide." 


VI 

Next  morning  Joanna  woke  very  early,  yet  feeling  unusually 
refreshed.  She  was  conscious  of  an  exquisite  calm  and  had 
a  vision,  crystal-clear  and  unshaken,  of  existence.  All  diffi- 
culties fell  from  her.  She  knew  now  as  if  it  were  written 
on  her  bedroom  wall  that  she  would  be  Mario's  wife,  and 
would  go  away  with  him  to  Italy.  Already  she  had  shed  her  life 
in  Glasgow  like  a  husk — had  it  happened  in  sleep?  Before 
her  now  lay  the  new  life,  and  she  set  her  face  towards  it  freed. 
She  was  done  with  questioning.  Everything  was  beautifully 
simple.  Mario  needed  her:  no  one  else  did.  It  was  wonder- 
ful to  be  needed  by  this  dark,  exigent  man  with  the  curious 
beauty  that  took  her  breath  away.  Everything  could  be  left 
to  him.  She  had  only  to  hold  out  her  hands: — to  give. 
Splendid,  giving  to  anyone  who  wanted  what  you  had  with 
such  blazing  eagerness.  She  would  think  no  more  about 
Bob.  He  had  failed  her,  or  she  had  failed  him.  Which,  she 
might  never  know.  Thinking  of  Bob,  she  seemed  to  see  his 


98  OPEN    THE    DOOR 

face  drowned  in  tears.  There  was  a  fountain  of  tears  in  her 
for  Bob,  or  for  herself  in  connection  with  Bob.  That  must 
be  sealed  up.  There  were  no  tears  in  her  for  Mario.  This 
was  a  thought  that  gave  strength.  Mario  might  frighten 
her — He  would  never  be  able  to  hurt  her,  as  Bob  had  hurt 
her:  as  Bob  was  hurting  her  even  now.  It  was  through  her 
dreams  that  Bob  hurt  her.  About  Mario  she  had  no  dreams. 
He  was  her  escape  into  reality. 

Resting  there  in  bed,  lapped  by  the  silken  warmth  of  her 
half-awakened  body,  she  wondered  why  Mario,  who  wanted 
her  so  much  more  than  ever  Bob  had  wanted  her,  should 
estimate  her  so  much  lower.  Bob  had  admired  her  drawing, 
her  clothes,  the  way  she  did  her  hair.  But  Mario 

She  recalled  the  first  time  she  had  taken  him  to  her  studio. 
How  he  had  poured  scorn  on  her  drawing,  reminding  her  in 
his  denunciations  of  Nilsson,  the  Swedish  master  of  design  at 
the  Art  School,  who  was  the  only  teacher  for  whom  she  had 
even  attempted  to  work  during  this  last  term. 

"  You  draw  with  your  head  alone,"  Mario  had  said.  "  One 
must  draw  with  one's  heart,  one's  blood."  And  in  quick 
boredom  he  had  turned  from  her  work  to  the  pair  of  old  wine 
glasses  from  which,  eight  months  before,  Bob  and  she  had 
drunk  their  betrothal  champagne. 

"  These  now,"  he  had  exclaimed,  "  these  are  truly  beautiful. 
Look  at  them  and  see  how  the  maker  understood  the  working 
of  glass  with  his  heart  as  well  as  with  his  brain.  And  so  in 
the  glass  you  find  the  wickedness  of  his  heart  proclaimed 
as  well  as  the  goodness,  a  piece  of  pure,  defiant  art.  In 
your  drawing  you  suppress  the  evil  that  partly  creates  you, 
so  there  is  no  good  there  either,  no  beauty  of  life.  How  did 
you  come  by  the  glasses.  They  are  Irish,  I  should  think?  " 

Taking  them  from  the  mantel-piece,  blowing  off  the  studio 
dust,  holding  them  delicately  to  the  light,  Mario  had  consid- 
ered them  with  that  intentness  of  his  which  was  always  a 
wonder  to  Joanna.  He  never  looked  at  anything  vaguely,  as 
she,  confused  and  absorbed  by  her  own  emotions,  so  constantly 
did. 

He  had  raised  his  brows,  as  she  told  him  how  she  had  bought 
them  of  a  dealer  for  a  few  shillings. 

"  But  I  won't  tell  him  why  I  got  them,"  she  had  said  to 
herself.  "  That  will  be  a  secret  always  between  them  and 
me  and  Bob." 


99 

Yet  immediately  something  that  did  not  seem  herself  had 
made  her  tell  him. 

He  had  watched  her  face  during  the  brief,  hesitating  recital, 
still  holding  the  glasses  delicately  by  their  stems,  one  in  either 
hand,  between  the  forefinger  and  the  thumb.  And  when  she 
was  done,  he  had  raised  his  hands  a  very  little,  and  opened 
his  fingers.  And  the  glasses — the  lovely  wine-glasses  that 
were  like  river  water  full  of  the  shimmer  of  wavelets  and  criss- 
cross reeds — had  been  shattered  on  the  hearth-stone  in  ten 
millions  shivers. 

He  had  offered  no  apology.  "  That  then  is  the  end  of  them," 
he  had  said.  That  was  all. 

Yes;  it  might  be  that  she  did  not  love  this  man.  But  she 
exulted  in  him.  She  exulted  in  his  certitude,  in  his  power  of 
action.  To  her  he  appeared  unhampered,  and  therefore  god- 
like, adorable.  And  he  so  gloriously  knew  what  he  wanted. 
He  wanted  her — Joanna,  out  of  all  the  world  of  women. 
Well,  he  was  to  have  her.  It  was  decided;  and  decided  by 
some  power  quite  outside  of  her  will. 

vn 

From  that  moment  the  end  was  lost  sight  of  in  the  many 
exigencies  of  the  means.  On  the  amazing  central  fact  of  her 
marriage  Joanna  did  not  let  herself  dwell,  even  in  her  most 
solitary  hours.  All  her  energies,  and  her  awaking  powers 
of  management,  were  thrown  into  bringing  about  the  wedding 
with  the  least  possible  delay. 

Once  she  had  pledged  herself  to  Mario,  there  seemed  no 
valid  reason  for  delay,  while  there  were  many  for  haste. 
The  sooner  he  returned  to  Italy,  the  better  their  prospects. 
But  he  would  not  suffer  a  parting.  He  was  afraid  of  losing 
her.  And  Joanna  was  glad  of  his  refusal;  for  she  shared  his 
fear,  shared  it  strangely  on  his  account.  "  If  he  goes  away 
he'll  never  get  me!  "  was  her  scarce  articulate  thought.  So 
they  both  conspired  in  doing  away  with  the  inevitable  obsta- 
cles. 

And  soon  their  haste,  which  to  their  small  circle  had  at 
first  seemed  the  height  of  unreason,  assumed  an  air  almost  of 
commonsense.  It  was  a  little  sudden  perhaps,  but  after  all 
the  circumstances  were  exceptional. 

As  for  Juley,  in  the  turn  things  had  taken  she  perceived 
the  finger  of  God.  Of  late  she  had  been  conscious  of  Joanna's 


ioo  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

restless  lassitude.  But  from  any  appeal  for  confidence,  the 
girl  had  at  once  recoiled  further  than  ever  into  herself.  To 
pray  and  sorrow  in  private,  then,  was  all  the  Mother  could 
do.  And  might  not  Mario  be  God's  answer?  One  must  have 
faith.  Had  Sholto  been  alive,  all  would  have  been  different. 

vm 

In  Glasgow  at  the  moment  the  Bannermans  were  awkwardly 
placed  for  a  pastor,  so  after  much  talk  it  was  decided  that 
the  wedding  should  take  place  in  London.  Mario  went  on 
first  to  arrange  matters  with  the  Italian  Consul  who  was  a 
friend;  and  Joanna  followed  with  her  mother. 

They  so  nearly  missed  the  London  train,  that  it  had  begun 
to  move  before  they  were  on  board.  Juley,  worn  out  by  the 
rush,  sank  down  at  once  in  the  carriage;  but  Joanna  stayed 
in  the  corridor,  and  hung  out  of  the  window  to  say  good  bye 
to  her  brothers. 

Linnet,  rushing  along  side,  thrust  something  into  her  hand — 
something  small  wrapped  in  tissue  paper. 

"  That's  my  present,"  he  panted.  "  I  hadn't  any  money, 
but  I  thought  you'd  be  able  to  wear  this.  You'd  better  not 
tell  Mother.  She  might  be  vexed." 

Joanna  clutched  the  little  packet,  and  nodded  and  smiled. 
She  couldn't  see  for  tears.  The  train  ran  faster  and  Linnet 
stopped.  He  waved  his  cap  up  and  down  in  a  queer,  jerky 
way,  as  if  shy  of  moving  his  arms  in  public.  Further  down  the 
platform  stood  Sholto,  making  wide  gestures  with  two  hand- 
kerchiefs. He  had  been  learning  signalling  in  his  cadet  corps 
at  school. 

Suddenly  the  sister  felt  like  a  deserter.  How  could  she  leave 
the  boys?  Why  was  she  doing  it?  To  get  married?  It 
seemed  unnatural,  monstrous.  Sholto  had  worked  hard  to 
get  his  present  finished  in  time.  It  was  a  poker-worked  toilet 
set — brushes,  hand-mirror,  boxes  and  tray — all  with  the  same 
lily-of-the-valley  design.  She  leaned  out  waving.  She  waved 
and  waved  till  the  train,  curving,  cut  the  platform  from  sight. 
Then  in  the  corridor  she  opened  Linnet's  package.  He  had 
given  her  his  father's  gold  signet  ring.  It  had  been  his  since 
his  fifteenth  birthday,  and  though  he  never  wore  it  they  all 
knew  he  treasured  it.  It  bore  the  Bannerman  crest — pro 
patria  under  a  naked  demi-man  holding  a  banner.  Joanna 
put  it  on  under  her  glove. 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  101 


IX 

The  night  before  the  wedding,  Georgie  cried  a  good  deal, 
for  she  was  sure  Joanna  didn't  properly  love  the  man  she  was 
marrying,  and  marriage  without  love  was  the  desecration  of 
desecrations.  Georgie  came  to  sleep  at  the  little  temperance 
hotel  in  Bloomsbury  where  Juley  had  taken  rooms,  and  she 
shared  Joanna's  bed.  Joanna's  replies  to  her  questions  con- 
firmed her  worst  fears.  Her  sister  wes  entering  a  loveless 
marriage. 

But  Georgie  understood  that  it  could  not  be  stopped; 
and  miserable  as  she  was,  it  was  Georgie  who  insisted  on  a 
white  satin  bow  upon  the  coachman's  whip. 

They  had  hired  a  carriage  with  two  horses — Georgie  said 
they  must  have  two — to  take  them  to  the  Registrar's  where 
Mario  waited  with  his  friend  the  Consul.  The  marriage  was 
over  in  five  minutes,  and  they  all  drove  on  to  the  station  for 
lunch. 

Joanna,  in  a  blue  travelling  dress,  the  price  of  which  she 
would  not  tell  Georpie,  and  a  little,  white,  close-fitting  hat, 
smote  on  her  mother's  heart.  She  looked  so  unprepared,  so 
lamentably  young.  Yet  to  the  last  she  had  sheered  away 
from  all  maternal  warnings  and  counsel. 

The  farewell  was  scrappy  and  confused.  Juley,  at  the  last 
moment,  remembering  injunctions  about  Aunt  Perdy  to  whom 
she  was  sending  presents,  almost  forgot  to  kiss  Joanna  good- 
bye. Georgie  blubbered,  but  bore  up.  Mario  was  angry 
because  there  were  other  people  in  the  carriage.  But  at  this 
Joanna  felt  a  secret  relief. 

Not  till  they  were  on  the  Dover  packet  did  she  come  alive 
to  the  strange  adventure.  She  had  not  been  out  of  England 
before.  The  Channel  boat  was  different  from  any  steamer  on 
the  Clyde.  The  waters  of  the  Channel  rippled  and  shone, 
as  she  had  never  seen  other  waters  ripple  and  shine.  Near 
her  some  people  chattered  in  French.  The  sailors  ran  about. 
There  was  a  smell  of  biscuits  and  brandy,  of  ropes,  of  tar,  of 
engines,  of  the  sea — the  smell  of  foreign  travel. 

A  handsome  woman,  very  well  dressed,  with  beautifully 
tinted  hair,  scarlet  lips  and  blackened  eyelids,  looked  Joanna 
down  and  up,  and  Joanna  took  her  envy  for  criticism.  Mario 
had  gone  to  find  deck  chairs.  He  stood  at  some  distance 
speaking  to  a  sailor,  his  shoulders  moving.  Very  foreign  and 


IO2 

animated,  yet  very  much  at  home  he  seemed  to  her  in  these 
unaccustomed  surroundings.  Afraid,  but  thrilled  through 
and  through,  his  bride  watched  him.  That  man  in  the  gray 
suit  was  her  husband.  He  was  a  stranger  to  her:  at  this 
moment  he  appeared  a  complete  stranger.  Yet  she  had  left 
her  mother,  her  home,  all  that  was  familiar,  to  come  away 
with  him. 

This  then  was  life  at  last!  But  it  seemed  less  real,  more 
dream-like  than  anything  that  had  gone  before.  She  was 
going  to  a  strange  land,  was  going  among  strangers,  was 
going  alone  with  that  passionate  stranger  in  the  gray  suit.  The 
train  of  experience  was  alight.  Greatly  she  feared  it.  But  not 
for  anything  would  she  have  escaped. 

Soon  Mario  came,  with  the  sailor  carrying  chairs.  When  he 
had  made  things  comfortable  in  his  deft,  experienced  way,  he 
groped  under  the  spread  rug  for  Joanna's  hand.  The  middle- 
aged  woman  with  the  very  red  lips,  looked  on  for  a  moment; 
then  she  turned  with  a  little  smile,  and  leaning  on  the  deck- 
rail,  gazed  toward  the  coast  of  France. 


CHAPTER  VII 


THEY  were  to  spend  their  honeymoon  at  Vallombrosa. 
For  Mario  the  place  had  happy  memories  of  childhood, 
for  Joanna  the  lovely  sounding  name  seemed  to  breathe  the 
essence  of  a  dream  Italy.  She  imagined  Vallombrosa  as  a 
wonderful,  classic  valley,  shaded  by  great  trees  such  as  never 
grew  at  home,  and  it  was  grief  to  her  that  they  could  not  go 
there  by  a  through  train  from  Calais.  They  would  have  to 
stay  a  night  in  Florence  on  the  way. 

Mario  had  not  told  his  sister  of  their  movements,  so  no  one 
met  them  at  the  station.  Joanna  had  not  believed  any  jour- 
ney could  be  so  long  and  so  tiring;  but  as  they  crossed  a 
deserted  piazza  to  their  Hotel,  a  porter  running  before  them 
with  their  hand  luggage,  the  midnight  air  refreshed  her 
wonderfully.  She  was  invigorated  too,  even  in  the  darkness, 
by  the  strangeness  of  everything.  Among  these  unfamiliar 
buildings,  breathing  this  new  air,  walking  under  this  foriegn 
sky,  the  man  with  whom  she  had  passed  the  last  forty-eight 
hours  in  the  cramped  room  of  a  railway  carriage,  became 
suddenly  an  old  and  tried  friend.  She  clung  to  his  arm  and 
reassured  herself  by  stealing  glances  at  his  dim  profile.  Though 
he  did  not  once  turn  his  face  to  hers  she  knew  he  was  pre- 
occupied utterly  by  thoughts  of  her. 

At  the  Hotel  bureau  some  letters  were  handed  to  Mario,  but 
he  stuffed  them  into  his  pocket  without  looking  at  them.  Then 
Joanna  and  he  were  taken  up  in  a  lift,  and  followed  their 
luggage  down  a  long  passage.  The  bedroom  had  the  highest 
ceiling  Joanna  had  ever  seen  in  a  bedroom,  and  the  loftiest 
windows  with  curtains  arranged  in  a  different  way  from  any 
curtains  at  home.  But  she  was  most  of  all  struck  by  the  two 
little  high  beds.  These  were  pushed  together,  made  up  as 
one,  and  turned  into  a  huge  diaphanous  tent  by  white  net 
draperies  which  hung  from  high  wooden  poles.  Instinctively 
Joanna  fancied  some  bridal  symbol,  and  she  would  not  have 
been  surprised  if  the  snowy  hangings  had  been  crowned  with 

103 


104  OPENTHEDOOR 

orange  blossoms.  But  Mario,  seeing  her  interest,  explained 
mosquito-curtains  to  her;  and  as  she  curiously  fingered  the 
net,  the  porter  smiled  and  said  something  to  Mario.  It  was 
clearly  the  first  time  the  young  signora  had  been  in  Italy! 

When  they  were  left  alone  Mario  glanced  over  his  letters 
and  handed  one  in  a  gray  envelope  to  Joanna.  "  For  you,"  he 
said,  and  throwing  his  own  unopened  on  a  table  he  went 
into  the  adjoining  bath-room  where  Joanna  heard  him  turn 
on  a  water-tap. 

At  the  sight  of  the  hand-writing  on  her  letter,  Joanna 
caught  her  breath.  It  was  from  Bob!  Its  presence  here  in 
Italy  appeared  a  miracle  till  she  saw  that  it  had  been  for- 
warded from  Collessie  Street  in  Linnet's  hand.  It  must  have 
reached  home  immediately  after  her  leaving,  and  so  had  out- 
run her  on  the  journey  south.  What  could  Bob  have  to  say? 
But  what  did  it  matter  what  he  said?  The  envelope  felt 
very  thin.  Suppose  now,  too  late,  Bob  were  to  tell  her  that  he 
loved  her,  that  he  had  loved  her  all  along?  Why  else  should 
he  have  written? 

Sitting  half  on,  half  against  the  bed,  so  that  the  poles  at 
the  corners  creaked  from  the  strain  on  the  netting,  Joanna 
read  the  short  note  Bob  had  written  her.  He  wished  her  well 
— he  had  passed  his  examination — would  shortly  start  for 
Africa — he  was  hers  ever — Bob.  And  underneath  the  signa- 
ture as  a  postscript  he  had  set  the  words — "  Have  a  good 
time."  That  was  all. 

Joanna,  more  shaken  than  she  knew  by  the  sight  of  Bob's 
handwriting,  was  relieved,  and  chagrined,  in  the  same  mo- 
ment. She  was  tired  out  too  from  the  journey,  irritated  by 
the  dust  which  felt  gritty  against  her  skin  all  over  her  body, 
over-wrought  by  the  excitement  of  Mario's  persistent  wooing 
in  the  dark  railway  carriage.  Throwing  back  her  head,  and 
puckering  up  her  face  like  a  child — she  burst  out  crying.  As 
the  first  loud  desolate  wail  escaped  her  she  felt  tremendous 
surprise.  "I've  never  cried  like  this  before,"  she  said  within 
herself.  "  What  can  be  happening  to  me?  "  And  she  went 
on  crying  aloud,  finding  wonderful  relief  and  a  kind  of  healing 
in  the  new  unrestraint. 

Hearing  the  noise  above  his  own  splashing,  Mario  came  run- 
ning in  to  her  with  a  frightened  face.  His  hands  were  wet, 
and  he  had  taken  off  his  coat  and  his  collar,  which  made  him 
into  a  stranger  again.  He  questioned  Joanna  anxiously. 


OPENTHEDOOR  105 

What  was  wrong?  She  did  not  know:  but  between  her  as- 
tonished sobs  she  tried  to  tell  him.  She  was  afraid  he  would 
be  angry.  But  instead  he  was  kind.  She  handed  him  the 
letter  to  read,  and  having  glanced  through  it,  he  let  it  fall 
on  the  carpet,  comforting  her  with  his  cool,  damp  hands. 
And  presently,  before  she  had  quite  stopped  crying,  he  took 
her  to  the  mirror  and  made  her  laugh  at  the  sight  of  her 
dirty,  tear-stained  cheeks.  He  pulled  the  pins  out  of  her 
hat  with  his  deft  ringers,  and  covered  her  face  with  kisses. 

"You  see  I  love  you,  dirt  and  all!  "  he  said,  holding  her, 
laughing  at  her,  brushing  the  letter  and  her  tears  aside  as 
mere  childishness.  Joanna's  heart  was  warm  with  gratitude  to 
him.  This  man  knew  how  to  treat  her.  And  now  with  his 
wet  pushed-back  hair,  and  his  strong  bare  neck,  he  looked 
boyish,  different  from  the  Mario  she  had  known  before.  He 
had  irresistible  grace.  No  one  had  warned  her  of  the  beauty 
men  conceal  beneath  their  disfiguring  clothes,  their  stiff  collars. 

n 

Early  next  morning  she  was  awakened  by  the  chant  of  a 
goat-herd  passing  with  his  flock  under  the  Hotel  windows. 
Hearing  it  first  in  her  dreams,  this  most  fascinating  of  Floren- 
tine street-cries  seemed  to  her  a  melody  of  unearthly  sweet- 
ness. Then  following,  and  mingling  with  it,  came  other  strange 
cries  and  sounds  floating  from  the  foreign  street  through  the 
closed  shutters  into  the  quite  high-walled  room.  It  was  dark 
in  the  room,  but  she  became  immediately  aware  that  sun- 
light of  a  kind  she  had  never  yet  seen  was  filling  the  outside 
world,  beating  strongly  like  waves  against  the  fast-bolted 
shutters. 

Everything  was  strange.  But  strangest  of  all  was  to  see  on 
the  pillow  beside  hers  the  dark  disordered  head  of  the  man  who 
had  married  her.  He  was  still  asleep,  his  face  turned  away; 
and  keeping  quite  still  on  her  side  with  her  knees  drawn  up 
and  her  palm  under  her  cheek,  Joanna  thought  of  the  past 
night.  Wave  after  wave  of  purely  physical  recollections  swept 
through  her;  but  at  the  same  time  in  her  brain  a  cool  spec- 
tator seemed  to  be  sitting  aloof  and  in  judgment.  This  then  was 
marriage!  This  droll  device,  this  astonishing,  grotesque  ex- 
perience was  what  the  poets  had  sung  since  the  beginning. 
To  this  all  her  quivering  dreams  had  led,  all  Mario's  wooing 
touches  and  his  glances  of  fire!  The  reality  made  her  feel 


io6  OPENTHEDOOR 

a  stranger  in  a  strange  world.  Not  a  rebellious  stranger. 
She  was  humbly  anxious  to  conform  to  reality — eager  to 
accept  and  get  used  to  the  new  aspect  of  things.  But  she 
was  before  all  things  astounded. 

Suddenly  she  felt  she  must  gaze  at  her  husband  under  the 
altered  conditions  he  had  created,  and  raising  herself  very 
cautiously  on  her  elbow  she  leaned  over  and  peered  down  at 
him  in  the  half  light.  He  was  sleeping  like  a  child  with  imper- 
ceptible breathing,  and  he  had  the  innocent  look  of  a  child  on 
his  unconscious  face. 

Joanna,  by  gentle  degrees  shifted  her  position  till  she  was 
crouching  over  Mario,  then  suddenly  he  opened  infantine 
eyes.  She  was  caught,  and  she  hung  above  him  breathless, 
gazing  ensnared,  stirred  to  a  new  feeling  by  the  changing  in 
his  eyes  from  babe  to  man.  The  next  moment  his  hands  had 
found  her,  and  he  drew  her  down,  uttering  a  deep  chuckling 
groan  of  content.  "  Mia  moglie,"  he  breathed  triumphantly, 
"  Mia  moglie,  mia  moglie,  moglie  mia !  " 

in 

Vallombrosa  was  as  deserted  as  lovers  could  wish.  The 
season  had  ended  weeks  ago.  Hotels  and  pensions  were  for- 
biddingly closed  as  if  for  eternity  and  except  for  the  pea- 
sants, and  the  bitter-faced  young  priest,  there  was  not  a  soul 
about.  Even  the  Foresta  had  its  shutters  barred,  though  the 
careful  padrone  walked  through  the  house  each  day  throwing 
them  open  to  the  sunshine  for  a  few  hours  to  keep  the  place 
aired.  The  humble  little  Villino  Medici  to  which  Mario  and 
Joanna  went  was  the  only  exception,  and  its  proprietor  was 
never  tired  of  telling  his  guests  that  they  were  having  the 
finest  weather  of  the  year  hitherto.  There  was  hot  sunshine 
all  day,  and  only  the  least  hint  of  frost  every  evening. 

Joanna  had  been  entranced  by  their  journey  up  in  the  funicu- 
lar. This  was  the  last  thing  she  had  expected — to  go  uphill 
to  Vallombrosa!  It  was  late  afternoon  and  the  yet  unfallen 
gold  of  chestnuts  and  Italian  oaks  glowed  with  an  intimate 
joyousness  against  the  remote  amethyst  of  the  sky  which  grew 
deeper  moment  by  moment.  The  few  passengers — some  soldiers 
and  market-women,  with  whom  at  first  Mario  and  his  wife 
shared  the  train  alighted  at  stopping  places  on  the  lower  part 
of  the  hill;  so  the  two  were  soon  left  alone  except  for  the 
conductor  who  had  twinkling  eyes,  an  indigo  chin  and  a  huge 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  107 

gray  mustache.  He  smiled  indulgently  on  them,  and  allowed 
them  to  stand  out  on  the  little  platform  in  front,  while  he 
turned  his  fat  shoulders  on  them  and  read  his  Corriere  as  long 
as  the  light  lasted. 

They  leaned  forward  on  the  rail,  he  watching  her,  she  gaz- 
ing with  delight  first  on  one  side,  then  on  another,  of  the  stony 
winding  track  which  hardly  seemed  to  violate  the  hillside. 
The  little  engine  behind  them  throbbed  gallantly  as  it  pushed 
them  up  and  up.  They  did  not  speak  much,  but  now  and 
then  Mario  kissed  Joanna's  shoulder,  keeping  his  lips  there  till 
she  felt  their  warmth  and  their  hunger  through  her  thin  blouse. 
It  seemed  years  since  the  early  morning  when  she  had  found 
something  ludicrous  and  inadequate  in  the  decree  of  nature. 
Now  she  thought  of  the  coming  night  with  awakening  senses; 
and  for  the  first  time  with  deliberate  intent  to  stir  her  hus- 
band's pulses  she  turned  in  the  quivering  light,  and  looked  at 
him.  Joanna  hardly  recognized  herself  in  this  voluptuous 
charmer  under  Italian  skies.  But  was  it  right?  Did  all 
wives  feel  and  behave  like  this?  She  thought  of  her  mother, 
of  Mrs.  Boyd,  of  Aunt  Georgina,  of  the  teaching  and  the 
traditions  on  which  she  had  been  nourished.  Which  was 
right — those  traditions  or  this  abandonment?  It  seemed  im- 
possible that  both  could  be  right,  yet  could  anything  be 
wrong  which  gave  such  release,  such  harmony  with  the  golden 
world  and  the  violet  heavens?  It  harmed  no  one,  and  it 
swept  away  the  uneasiness  under  which  her  youth  had 
labored  for  so  long.  She  could  laugh  now  in  a  voice  she  hardly 
knew,  could  cry  easily,  refreshingly,  could  express  her  emotion 
swiftly  in  gestures.  She  no  longer  jarred  on  herself.  Joanna 
remembered  a  frequent  saying  of  her  mother's  that  the  test 
of  a  thing's  Tightness  was  whether  one  could  pray  to  God  about 
it  without  shame.  Well,  she  had  never  felt  so  full  of  worship. 
Therefore  it  must  be  right — and  yet ? 

With  her  husband's  arm  round  her,  she  looked  down  between 
the  gold  and  silver  of  some  birch  trees  to  the  great  plain  below. 
The  mist  lay  there  like  fallen  columns,  and  the  river,  which 
Mario  told  her  was  the  Arno,  wound  in  and  out,  shiny  like  a 
snail's  track.  A  high  old  villa  on  a  pointed  hill  massed  itself 
grandly  with  its  body-guard  of  cypresses  against  the  sky. 
Some  trees  near  had  scarlet  stems  from  which  a  few  green 
leaves  hung  limply.  As  Joanna  gazed,  the  sky,  changing  from 
violet  to  an  intenser  blue  seemed  to  tremble  downwards  on 


io8  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

the  waiting  earth  like  a  lover  assured  of  his  welcome  yet 
incredulous  of  his  good  fortune.  Again  she  turned  her  face 
to  Mario,  this  time  without  a  trace  of  consciousness  or  coquetry, 
and  all  the  magic  of  the  Italian  night  now  dwelt  for  her  in  his 
eyes. 

They  had  to  drive  from  the  station  some  miles  in  a  little 
open  carriage.  There  was  no  moon,  and  the  road  ran  in 
darkness  through  the  high,  breathless  pine  forests.  But 
lying  back  with  their  heads  against  the  folded  hood  of  the 
carriage  they  could  watch  the  deep  blue,  winding  river  of  the 
night  sky  flowing  between  the  tree-tops  with  its  foam  of  stars. 
So  as  to  lean  back  comfortably  Joanna  took  off  her  hat,  and 
wound  a  white  scarf  round  her  head  and  neck.  Mario  said 
it  made  her  look  like  a  nun,  and  he  knelt  on  the  carriage  floor 
at  her  feet  to  make  love  to  her.  His  beseeching  face  seemed 
to  her  like  a  piece  of  escaped  starlight  on  her  knees. 

rv 

Next  morning  he  took  her  through  the  woods  to  a  little 
pillared  shrine  in  which  the  dead  leaves  were  drifted  in  heaps. 
On  the  way  they  passed  many  other  shrines,  and  Joanna  ex- 
claimed at  their  number  and  at  the  feeling  of  happiness  their 
presence  gave  to  her.  In  Mario's  shrine  he  and  his  sister 
Maddalena  had  often  played  as  children,  and  as  he  sat  there 
now  with  his  wife,  he  talked  gaily  of  his  boyhood,  which  had 
been  very  happy. 

Again  and  again,  as  he  was  speaking,  Joanna  felt  all  the  old, 
accustomed  moral  values  slipping  away,  and  it  came  to  her 
that  she  must  put  new  ones  in  their  places,  without  a  soul 
from  the  old  life  to  help  her. 

In  a  perfectly  matter-of-fact  way  Mario  told  that  his  father 
had  never  married  his  mother — as  was  indeed  reasonable, 
seeing  that  Count  Rasponi  was  the  head  of  a  so  famous  family, 
and  Maria  Cecchi  merely  the  daughter  of  a  professor  of 
mechanics  at  Turin.  Besides  the  whole  affair  had  been  simply 
a  youthful  escapade.  As  was  proper,  however,  Maria's  father 
had  brought  pressure  to  bear  on  the  house  of  Rasponi,  with 
the  fitting  result  that  Mario  was  legitimized  and  educated  at 
his  father's  expense.  Within  a  year  of  his  birth  his  mother 
had  found  a  husband  in  her  own  class — a  simple  surgeon — and 
of  that  marriage  was  Maddalena  born. 

Since  reaching  her  teens  said   Mario,  his  half-sister  had 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  109 

treated  him  constantly  as  though  he,  not  she  had  been  the 
younger.  She  had  not  married,  and  since  the  death  of  both 
her  parents  he  had  lived  with  her.  Warmly  he  praised  her 
qualities.  "  When  you  see  her,"  he  smiled,  "  you  will  see  a 
veritable  Italian  woman." 

But  Joanna  was  nervous  of  the  ordeal  awaiting  her  in 
Florence  where  a  long  visit  to  Maddalena  had  been  promised. 
And  even  when  they  had  left  the  shrine,  crossing  a  road  and 
descending  a  green  slope  all  dappled  with  sunshine,  she  was 
still  anxiously  forecasting  the  meeting  between  herself  and 
this  unknown,  perhaps  hostile  sister-in-law. 

Nothing  Mario  could  say  brought  reassurance.  Yet  a 
moment  later  Maddalena  was  forgotten,  and  all  else.  For 
Joanna  attracted  irresistibly  by  a  company  of  trees  which 
stood  further  down  in  a  hollow  of  the  slope,  had  run  forward, 
and  was  trying  how  many  falling  leaves  she  could  catch. 

There  were  perhaps  a  dozen  trees  together,  with  stems  as 
white  as  milk  and  their  leaves  blowing  silver  against  the  blue 
sky;  and  in  their  slender  posturings  and  shadows  interlaced, 
they  were  like  a  group  of  Botticelli's  women. 

Mario  stood  and  laughed  as  she  raced  to  and  fro  after  the 
leaves.  Every  puff  of  the  morning  air  loosened  one  or  two; 
sometimes  in  a  stillness  many  showered  at  once.  But  they 
evaded  the  grasp  like  wild  things  in  their  wavering  course 
downwards,  and  each  time  she  lost  one  Joanna  cried  out  with 
disappointment. 

"Each  leaf  you  catch  brings  a  happy  year!  "  she  called 
out,  bird-like  and  shrill,  to  Mario.  And  though  he  found  her 
excitement  childish,  and  in  some  curious  way  unwelcome, 
he  presently  joined  in  the  game.  Already  Joanna  had  grown 
clever  at  it.  She  was  getting  leaf  after  leaf,  and  she  laughed 
with  joyous  spitefulness  because  her  husband  did  not  catch 
one. 

Then  they  grew  tired  and  sat  down,  and  Joanna  counted  her 
happy  years.  Sheep  came  and  cropped  the  short  grass  near 
them,  and  in  another  part  of  the  dimpled  field  two  little  horses 
never  ceased  waving  their  tails.  The  hours  went  winged. 
Here  life  seemed  quite  simple:  There  was  no  past,  no  future, 
only  the  simple,  beautifully  rounded  present. 


i io  OPEN    THE    DOOR 


Three  days  later  Mario  said  he  must  stay  indoors  that  after- 
noon to  write  letters.  He  suggested  that  Joanna  too  should 
write,  sitting  at  the  table  beside  him.  As  yet  she  had  only 
sent  a  post-card  home  each  day,  and  had  torn  up  several 
attempts  at  a  letter  to  her  mother. 

But  she  felt  incapable  of  setting  words  on  paper,  and  said 
that  she  would  wait  for  him  outside. 

A  look  of  distress  crossed  Mario's  face,  but  he  let  her  go, 
telling  her  twice  over  exactly  to  which  spot  between  the 
disused  fish-ponds  of  the  monastery  he  would  follow  her  in 
a  very  short  time.  As  they  parted  there  was  a  moment  of 
enmity  between  them,  and  Joanna  knew  that  he  had  guessed 
at  and  hated  her  longing  to  be  alone. 

Yet  as  she  went  slowly  down  the  hill,  her  solitude  was  very 
sweet  to  her.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  been  alone  in  any 
way  that  counted  since  her  marriage.  When  Mario  was 
with  her  she  could  only  feel;  now  she  could  think  quietly, 
luxuriously.  It  was  as  if  tight  coils  in  her  mind  were  unloosed. 
And  this  though  she  had  been  unaware  lately  of  any  strain  in 
his  company. 

Sitting  on  a  log  between  the  ponds  and  the  edge  of  the 
wood,  she  faced  the  neat  quadrangles  of  water,  and  her 
thoughts  flew  to  Collessie  Street.  What  were  they  all  doing? 

Without  warning  an  overmastering  affection  for  her  mother 
swept  through  her. 

"  When  I  go  back,"  she  told  herself  passionately,  "  I'll 
be  loving  and  most  tender,  and  Mother  will  be  so  happy  at 
that.  And  the  boys  too.  Why  have  I  always  been  so  cold, 
when  I  love  them  so  very  dearly?  I  wonder  they  can  like 
me  at  all.  But  they  will  love  me  when  they  find  how  changed 
I  am.  I  shall  like  them  to  love  me  tremendously." 

Then  sharply  came  the  realization  of  foolishness  in  all  such 
thoughts.  The  old  life  was  over,  and  with  it  its  chances  of 
loving  and  winning  love.  There  might  be  other  chances 
later,  never  the  same  again.  And  now  it  seemed  to  Joanna 
that  she  could  easily,  Oh !  so  easily  have  been  a  loving  daughter. 
It  was  simply  that  she  had  not  thought  of  it  at  the  time. 

Again  she  found  herself  saying  "  When  I  get  back,"  and 
again  had  to  pull  herself  up.  How  was  it  that  she  could 
not  make  herself  believe  that  she  had  finally  broken  with  the 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  in 

life  at  home?  How  was  it  that  she  could  never  for  long  rid 
herself  of  the  irrational  conviction  that  her  life  with  Mario 
was  an  interlude  which  would  soon  pass? 

"  When  I  get  back" — only  the  night  before,  she  had  un- 
wittingly let  the  phrase  fall  in  talk  with  Mario,  and  had  stopped 
short,  seeing  the  look  in  his  eyes.  He  had  demanded  the 
meaning  of  her  words,  but  she  had  no  explanation.  "  You 
speak  as  if  you  were  my  mistress,"  he  had  said.  "  Remember 
you  are  my  wife;  and  as  I  am  an  Italian,  you  are  my  wife  for 
as  long  as  I  live." 

He  had  looked  strangely  angry,  Joanna  thought,  considering 
that  it  was  after  all  a  natural  slip.  But  now,  as  she  sat  wait- 
ing for  him  through  this  first  long  half-hour  of  separation, 
she  knew  she  could  figure  no  future  in  their  marriage.  Once, 
twice,  three  times  she  tried;  and  the  vain  attempts  made 
her  so  unhappy  that  she  rose  and  went  a  little  way  into  the 
wood. 

"  I  have  no  imagination,  that's  it,"  she  told  herself  for 
comfort;  "or  perhaps  all  newly  married  women  feel  like 
that." 

As  she  strayed  in  and  out  amid  the  thin  skirting  of  trees, 
she  knew,  as  if  she  saw  him,  how  Mario  was  writing  with  a 
frown  on  his  face,  and  hurriedly,  that  he  might  join  her  with 
the  least  possible  delay.  Before  letting  her  go,  he  had  told 
her  she  need  never  expect  to  walk  out  alone  in  Florence,  not 
even  for  five  minutes.  But  this,  she  determined  must  be 
put  down  to  his  passing  vexation.  That  he  should  have 
spoken  it  in  earnest,  she  could  not  well  conceive.  Yet  there 
had  been  that  in  his  face  as  he  spoke,  a  look  of  fixed,  almost 
maniacal  resolve,  that  she  was  shaken  at  the  remembrance. 
She  had  once  wondered  if  Bob  were  mad.  Now  she  asked 
herself  the  same  question  of  Mario.  Were  all  men  mad?  She 
felt  lonely  in  the  world,  like  some  one  from  another  star. 
Would  she  ever  learn  the  ways  of  earth? — ever  feel  herself 
at  home  here?  If  she  had  even  possessed  memories  of  another 
world,  there  would  be  some  solid  standing  in  this.  But  as 
she  was,  she  seemed  to  belong  nowhere. 

At  that  moment  Mario  stepped  out  of  the  villino  looking 
in  her  direction.  From  her  shelter  of  trees  Joanna  saw  him, 
and  saw  him  worried  by  her  absence,  but  she  would  make 
no  sign.  Instead,  to  tease  him  still  more,  she  hid  behind  one 
of  the  broader  tree- trunks,  and  gathered  her  bright  blue  skirts 


ii2  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

close  to  her  legs,  so  that  there  might  be  no  reassuring  flutter. 
As  the  afternoon  was  cool,  she  had  borrowed  one  of  her 
husband's  knitted  waistcoats  with  sleeves,  which  he  wore 
when  bicycling;  and  with  the  little  orange  wool  coat  over  her 
vivid  gown,  she  looked  like  some  gay-colored  shy  bird. 

She  couldn't  help  laughing  to  herself  as  she  watched  the 
unwillingness  with  which  Mario  turned  in  at  the  monastery 
gates  with  his  letters.  If  they  did  not  go  at  once  they  would 
miss  the  post.  Besides,  she  knew  that  he  had  to  buy  stamps. 
But  she  saw  him  hesitate,  and  twice  he  looked  over  his  shoulder 
before  he  could  enter  the  little  post  office  at  the  top  of  the 
courtyard. 

He  was  gone  but  a  few  seconds;  then  pushing  his  letters 
hastily  into  the  outside  box,  he  ran  across  the  wide  paved 
space,  and  came  running  all  the  way  down  to  the  fish-ponds. 

Joanna,  still  in  hiding,  smiled  broadly  and  held  her  breath. 
Her  heart  was  leaping  deliciously.  When  he  came  quite 
close  she  meant  to  run  into  his  arms.  Now  she  could  hear 
his  quickened  breathing,  as  he  looked  uncertainly  on  either 
side. 

Then  he  called  her  name.  "  Giovanna!  Giovanna!  "  he 
called.  And  she  no  longer  smiled.  At  the  note  of  unlocked 
for  panic  in  his  voice,  her  blood  stood  still.  All  idea  of  the 
embrace  she  had  planned,  died  in  her.  She  stepped  out 
from  behind  her  tree,  confronting  him.  His  face  was  livid, 
insane,  and  he  stumbled  over  a  root  as  he  ran  towards  her. 

"  Never  do  that  again,"  he  commanded  in  a  strangling 
fury.  "  But  you  shall  not  again  have  the  chance  while  I  live, 
for  not  again  shall  you  go  out  again  by  yourself." 

He  stood  close  to  her,  and  now  that  his  fear  was  past,  he 
was  threatening  her.  Joanna  shrank  a  step  back,  but  he  caught 
her  wrists. 

"  What  did  it  mean,  last  night,  that  you  spoke  as  if  we  shall 
not  for  long  be  together?  Eh?  You  tell  me,  what  did  it 
mean?  " 

Joanna  shook  her  head;  and  she  had  to  moisten  her  lips 
with  her  tongue  before  she  could  answer. 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  You  don't  know!  Dio  mio!  Can  I  trust  you?  What 
are  you?  What  kind  of  a  woman?  I  don't  know.  I  know 
nothing  of  you.  You  have  treacherous  eyes.  Down  in  the 
field  yesterday  they  were  green  as  the  grass.  Now  they 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  113 

are  gray.  They  change.  And  your  little  tongue  just  now 
crept  out  between  your  lips  like  a  viper.  What  is  the  mean- 
ing of  it?  Why  do  you  hide  from  me?  " 

Joanna,  though  now  she  felt  both  afraid  and  in  the  wrong, 
stared  proudly  at  her  husband,  then  turned  her  eyes  away  with 
ostentatious  carelessness.  Anyhow  he  had  no  right  to  speak 
so  to  her,  and  she  must  be  angry  in  self-defence.  At  the  same 
time  there  was  a  secret,  inebriating  enjoyment  for  her  in  it 
all.  In  a  new  way  she  became  conscious  of  her  power  as  a 
woman. 

"  I  did  it  for  fun  of  course,"  she  said.  "  Can't  you  under- 
stand a  joke?  " 

"  You  did  it  for  fun?  A  joke!  One  day  you  would  per- 
haps think  it  fun  to  be  unfaithful  to  me?  It  would  be  your 
little  joke  to  deceive  your  husband?  Perhaps  this  is  the  kind 
of  woman  you  really  are?  Have  you  been  unfaithful  to  me 
already?  Here  among  the  trees.  That  dog  of  a  priest — 

At  Joanna's  very  heart  something  cried  out  that  she  was 
truly  accused:  but  to  stifle  and  deny  that  voice  all  her  powers 
leapt  up  like  ruffians.  Her  brain  repulsed  his  words  as  prepos- 
terous, her  flesh  sprang  taut,  so  that  with  one  sharp  movement 
she  wrenched  her  hands  free,  and  from  her  lips  came  an  excla- 
mation as  of  one  bitterly  injured. 

But  in  anger  she  knew  at  once  she  was  no  match  for  Mario, 
and  the  next  moment  she  had  rushed  into  another  false- 
ness. 

"  Mario,"  she  said,  looking  at  him  very  quietly,  "  I  don't 
understand.  You  know  I  only  hid  for  fun.  It  was  silly  of 
me,  and  I'm  sorry  it  put  you  out;  but  I  did  nothing  wrong." 

She  spoke  with  false,  lovely  gentleness,  deceiving  herself 
as  well  as  Mario,  and  immediately  he  was  full  of  penitence. 

"  Forgive  what  I  said.  It  meant  nothing.  But  you  make 
me  suffer  so  terribly.  You  should  not  have  hidden  in  that 
way.  I  cannot  bear  it.  Never  hide  from  me  again.  Let 
us  say  no  more,  either  of  us.  Let  us  kiss  and  forgive." 

He  held  out  his  arms  with  the  expression  Joanna  most 
loved  on  his  face — human  and  pleading,  very  winning  to  her; 
and  she  ran  into  his  embrace. 

"  What  are  you  like?  "  he  whispered,  when  they  had  stood 
some  moments  wrapped  together  in  that  solitary  place.  "  What 
are  you  like,  Giovanna?  "  and  he  drew  back  his  head  the 
better  to  see  his  wife's  face.  "  To  me  your  body  is  like 


ii4  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

steel  and  white  swansdown.  Your  neck,  your  breasts,  are 
soft  as  swansdown.  Your  straight,  fine  thighs  are  like  steel. 
Your  arms,  so  long  and  small,  are  like  the  necks  of  swans. 
I  should  like  never  to  let  you  go.  I  wish  you  could  be 
buckled  to  me,  close,  close  like  this  for  always.  When  you 
go  from  me  I  feel  as  if  my  vitals  had  been  torn  out — so  empty 
— quite  useless." 

He  held  her  still  closer,  bracing  his  body  hard  against  hers, 
and  suddenly  he  laughed. 

"  I  love  you  for  being  so  strong,"  he  said.  "  Do  you  know 
you  have  muscles  like  a  leopardess?  I  must  teach  you  to  fence 
with  the  sabres.  I  have  a  pair  in  Florence.  We  shall  fence 
in  the  evenings  when  I  come  home,  in  our  own  room,  and  you 
shall  wear  the  black  suit  Maddalena  is  to  make  for  you.  I 
believe,  Giovanna,  you  could  wrestle  with  me  and  make  it 
difficult  for  me  to  throw  you !  " 

At  the  challenge,  Joanna  who  had  been  hanging  limp  and 
heavy  in  his  arms,  tightened  her  hold  on  him  with  an  excited 
laugh.  Though  so  near  the  Villino  their  seclusion  at  this  hour 
was  perfect.  Over  her  husband's  shoulder,  between  the  trees, 
away  along  the  road  she  could  just  see  a  tiny  black  figure — 
the  priest,  on  his  way  to  Compline.  She  remembered  his 
young,  unhappy  face,  and  for  that  moment  it  was  not  Mario 
that  she  held  against  her  breast. 

They  began  to  wrestle. 

Silently,  save  for  little,  gasping  laughs  when  one  for  the 
minute  got  the  better,  they  strove  with  one  another.  They 
swayed  to  and  fro,  staggering.  Sometimes  they  would  lean 
against  a  tree,  panting,  then  start  afresh. 

Joanna  fought  her  hardest  at  once,  and  Mario  matched  him- 
self to  her,  always  keeping  something  in  reserve.  As  a  school- 
girl might,  Joanna  really  strained  every  nerve  to  prove  the 
stronger.  Till,  at  length,  seeing  the  laughter  in  her  face  die 
under  the  grimness  of  supreme  effort,  Mario  used  his  full 
strength  suddenly,  and  threw  her. 

She  had  tried  her  best,  and  she  rejoiced  that  he  had  beaten 
her.  He  had  made  her  his  anew,  and  she  longed  for  him. 
For  the  first  time  she  was  truly  his  bride,  he  her  bridegroom. 

"Mario!  Oh,  Mario,  look  at  the  sky!  "  she  breathed, — 
"  the  color  of  it." 

As  they  lay  there  all  slackly,  resting  on  their  backs  on  the 
sweet  ground,  recovering  their  breath,  staring  up  and  up  be- 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  115 

tween  the  tree-tops  at  the  quiet  sky,  the  monastery  bell  began 
to  ring  for  Compline.  The  smell  of  fresh-hewn  wood  came  to 
them,  and  the  sharp  fragrance  of  the  pine  needles.  Now  and 
then  a  cone  rustled  heavily  from  branch  to  branch,  and  thudded 
to  the  earth.  Somewhere  a  cicada  whirred,  like  a  pigmy's  loom 
weaving  indefatigably  some  fairy- web.  Another  hidden  being 
spoke  in  eager  whisperings,  as  a  pencil  moving  over  paper 
speaks,  faltering  at  times  as  if  the  poet  flagged,  but  only  to 
begin  again  with  the  speed  of  inspiration.  Yet  another  tiny 
creature  of  the  forest  shrilled  and  shrilled  with  its  insistent, 
thread-like  voice. 

The  austere,  Gothic  woodland,  regular  as  stone,  measured 
and  set  in  that  place  by  anointed  hands,  was  full  of  life.  There 
was  life  in  the  aisles  of  air  between  the  trees,  life  in  the  dark 
plumes,  life  in  the  stark  shafts,  life  amid  the  defiant  roots. 

The  sky  palpitated  from  blue  to  violet,  from  violet  to  a 
still  deeper  blue;  and  a  star  came  down  and  glittered  like  a 
tear  in  the  black  meshes  of  the  pines. 

VI 

From  that  evening  till  the  end  of  their  fortnight  at  Vallom- 
brosa,  Joanna  lived  wholly  in  the  new  world  Mario  had  created 
for  her.  It  was  a  glowing  world,  inhabited  only  by  the  man 
and  the  desired  woman. 

They  were  always  out  of  doors,  and  the  forest  was  a  shield 
shutting  them  off  from  every  beyond  of  thought.  Joanna's 
bodily  well-being  was  flawless,  and  they  walked,  sometimes 
long  distances,  Mario  taking  pride  in  her  vigor  and  staying 
power. 

She  was  no  longer  troubled  by  a  conviction  of  impermanence, 
nor  by  the  dread  of  what  awaited  her;  but  Mario,  though  he 
never  left  her  side,  was  often  in  torture.  He  felt  she  was 
escaping  him  always.  When  she  gazed  away  from  him  at  trees 
or  stars  in  a  long  rapture  h°  could  hardly  bear  it.  Even  when 
she  entranced  him  by  her  eaping  response  to  his  passion,  he 
had  the  sense  that  she  was  keeping  her  ultimate  self  immune — 
that  she  was  holding  back,  waiting  for  some  other  touch  than 
his.  But  of  all  this  he  said  nothing  to  her.  He  could  not  even 
formulate  it  clearly  to  himself.  Only  by  some  frantic  quality 
in  his  embraces  did  his  grievance  find  expression. 

What  they  had  was  not  love.  But  it  had  beauty,  and  it 
served. 


ii6  OPEN   THE    DOOR 

vn 

It  was  in  Florence  that  she  began  to  feel  herself  a  prisoner. 

They  had  not  been  two  days  with  Maddalena  in  the  little 
brown  villa  at  San  Gervasio,  before  Joanna  knew  how  far 
Mario  had  been  from  joking  when  he  had  spoken  of  keeping 
her  in  a  cage. 

In  Glasgow  the  seeming  extravagance  of  his  words  had 
helped  her  to  blind  herself  to  their  truth.  By  the  fish-ponds 
at  Vallombrosa  she  had  chosen  to  take  his  outbreak  as  a 
lover's  passing  frenzy.  Even  in  Florence  at  first,  she  refused 
to  believe  that  her  husband,  if  he  could,  would  have  had  her 
go  veiled  like  an  Eastern  woman ;  that  he  would  have  kept  her 
sequestered  behind  high  walls  while  business  claimed  him;  that 
this  desire  of  his  was  no  bridegroom's  freak,  but  a  necessity  of 
his  nature — as  much  a  part  of  him  as  his  pallor  or  the  black- 
ness of  his  hair. 

And  Maddalena  shared  his  view.  Maddalena  was  to  keep 
the  door  of  the  cage. 

It  was  true  that  walking  in  the  streets  of  Florence  was  an 
entirely  different  experience  from  walking  in  the  streets  of 
Glasgow.  Joanna  had  to  admit  that  to  herself  even  before 
Maddalena  pointed  it  out.  With  her  West  of  Scotland  fairness 
of  skin,  so  distinct  from  any  Italian  fairness,  she  was  a  clear 
mark  for  every  bold  Italian  eye.  Besides,  at  the  moment, 
she  carried  upon  her  the  lovely  bloom  which  comes  to  some 
women  when  they  are  first  possessed.  People  twisted  their 
heads  round  to  look  and  drew  one  another's  attention  to  her; 
and  she  dreaded  the  stares  because  of  Mario's  distorted  face. 
She  found  this  rage  of  his  hard  to  reconcile  with  his  light 
treatment  of  Bob's  letter. 

One  day,  within  a  week  of  their  arrival,  they  went  together 
to  change  some  English  money  at  Cook's  office  in  the  Via 
Tornabuoni.  The  place  was  crowded.  A  young  Italian,  mark- 
ing Joanna,  nudged  his  companion,  and  they  both  fixed  eyes 
on  her,  murmuring  to  each  other.  They  were  at  some  distance, 
but  in  spite  of  the  crowd,  Joanna  knew  by  Mario's  lowering 
brows  that  he  had  observed  them.  He  even  stepped  towards 
them  balefully  as  they  passed  out  by  the  glass  doors  to  the 
street. 

"  If  only  he  wouldn't  take  any  notice,"  she  thought  with 
anger.  Then  just  before  her,  at  the  little  window  of  the 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  117 

Bureau  de  Change,  some  question  was  asked  with  a  marked 
Edinburgh  accent.  Talking  to  the  clerk  about  a  circular  note 
stood  a  middle-aged  Scotsman.  He  had  gray  hair  and  a  kind, 
shrewd  face,  and  by  the  side  of  Mario's  frenzy  his  known  de- 
meanor lacerated  her  with  home-sickness.  What  was  she  doing 
among  these  insolent  and  jealous  Italians?  She  longed  to  ask 
help  of  this  safe  man  with  the  so  familiar  speech.  From  the 
look  of  him  she  felt  sure  he  must  know  her  Aunt  Georgina.  But 
when  he  moved  away  without  a  glance  in  her  direction,  she 
merely  took  his  place  mutely,  and  picked  up  her  silver  and 
nickel  pieces  without  counting  them. 

Not  speaking,  she  and  Mario  walked  back  down  the  Via 
Tornabuoni.  Mario  was  inwardly  vowing  that  his  wife  should 
go  no  step  by  herself  in  town  or  country,  no  matter  how  she 
might  plead.  He  wondered  if  even  Maddalena  could  be  trusted 
with  her.  Not  only  was  he  maddened  by  the  staring,  but  he 
had  seen,  as  they  left  Cook's,  a  look  of  contempt  and  rebellion 
on  Joanna's  face.  Joanna,  for  her  part,  was  aghast  at  the 
situation,  and  knew  not  which  to  hate  more — the  impudent 
Florentines  or  Mario's  unreasonable  anger  with  what  after 
all  seemed  the  custom  of  his  country.  She  was  alarmed  too 
by  her  pain  of  home-sickness  at  sight  of  the  man  from  Edin- 
burgh. Had  she  not  always  felt  alien  in  Edinburgh?  Even  in 
Glasgow  had  she  not  fancied  herself  a  changeling?  And  here 
was  a  new  loneliness  engulfing  her.  Was  there  no  place  in 
the  world  where  she  might  feel  at  home? 

Both  miserable,  they  made  their  way  slowly  through  the 
slow-moving  crowds  of  the  Via  Ceretane  which  was  already 
sunk  from  daylight:  and  with  the  flame  of  sunset  behind 
them,  they  made  for  the  Piazza,  del  Duomo  where  their  tram 
was. 

Two  days  before,  seeing  the  Duomo  for  the  first  time,  Joanna 
had  remained  aloof.  To  Mario's  disappointment  she  had  been 
unimpressed  by  the  checkered  mass  of  its  marble. 

But  now,  looking  up  from  the  pool  of  nightfall  where  they 
walked,  she  held  her  breath. 

There,  lifted  up  to  burn  and  rejoice  claiming  the  sun  for 
its  own,  like  the  face  of  some  heavy,  splendid  flower — some 
dahlia  gloriosa  with  a  thousand  hearts — was  the  faqade. 

At  the  sight,  Joanna's  private  trouble  fell  from  her,  and  a 
new  impersonal  happiness  she  was  learning  to  recognize,  surged 
in  her  again.  Ah!  What  a  coward  she  had  been  about  the 
man  from  Edinburgh!  What  could  he  do  for  her?  He  could 


n8  OPEN    THE    DOOR 

but  take  her  back  to  all  she  had  left  and  must  go  on  leaving. 

But  Mario!  Mario  was  of  a  piece  with  the  new  life.  Mario 
was  descended  from  the  men  who  had  spun  this  blossom  out 
of  stone:  and  he  desired  her  for  beauty  he  saw  in  her.  She 
too,  like  the  fagade,  had  a  heart  for  the  sun.  And  he  had  dis- 
covered it.  Let  Mario  use  her  for  his  happiness  in  the  way 
he  would.  Let  him  kill  her  if  that  was  his  way.  But  in  spirit 
at  least  she  would  never  now  go  back. 

His  wife's  enthusiasm,  and  the  quick  recovery  of  pleasure 
in  her  face,  turned  Mario's  humor.  During  the  race  for  the 
tram,  whch  had  already  started,  they  were  both  mad  with 
excitement.  All  the  way  home  they  wooed  each  other. 

vm 

But  the  bars  of  the  cage  were  still  there,  and  as  one  result 
of  their  presence  Joanna  was  sorely  deprived  of  the  bodily 
exercise  which  had  always  meant  so  much  to  her.  Mario,  hav- 
ing now  started  work,  left  the  villa  at  seven,  or  even  earlier 
each  morning.  He  had  not  to  be  at  his  office  till  half  past 
eight,  but  liked  always  to  spend  an  hour  first  in  the  Cascine 
experimenting  with  the  new  brakes  or  seats  or  pedals  that  he 
was  continually  inventing.  He  did  not  return  until  six — some- 
times seven  o'clock,  when  it  was  already  dark. 

Maddalena  hated  walking.  Though  only  thirty-five,  she  was 
already  very  stout.  And  as  the  ordinary  household  shopping 
was  done  by  the  cook  soon  after  dawn,  Joanna  was  compelled 
to  spend  the  greater  part  of  her  time  either  indoors  or  lounging 
in  the  garden. 

She  tried  to  sketch. 

The  little  villa,  with  its  ochre  walls  of  stucco  on  which  had 
been  painted  imitation  cross-timbers  of  a  faded  chocolate 
color,  was  not  attractive.  But  the  stabilimento  behind,  where 
the  contadini  and  their  beasts  lived,  offered  some  pleasant 
arrangements  of  wall  and  terrace,  some  tempting  patterns  of 
sunshine  and  deep  shadow. 

For  hours  at  a  time  she  tried  to  put  on  paper  some  of  the 
charm  she  saw  in  the  podere,  and  all  the  while  she  kept 
reproaching  herself  for  not  having  worked  more  seriously  at 
her  drawing  when  she  had  the  chance.  She  was  always 
quite  dissatisfied  with  her  efforts,  and  generally  ended  by  lay- 
ing aside  her  pencil  and  falling  into  a  dream. 

One  morning  she  had  been  for  half  an  hour  thus  drawing  and 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  119 

despairing.  She  sat  on  a  cushion  upon  the  low  brick  wall 
which  surrounded  the  well,  and  though  it  was  past  the  middle 
of  December  the  garden  was  full  of  strong  sunshine.  On 
the  terrace  above  the  well  grew  a  pomegranate  tree.  Its  lower 
branches  were  still  green,  but  it  had  shaken  off  its  upper 
foliage,  and  the  slender  flakes  of  gold  lay  all  around.  Some 
were  fallen  in  the  well,  and  these  swam  on  the  black  water, 
a  flotilla  of  yellow  canoes,  wonderfully  frail  yet  with  jaunty 
prows.  On  the  terrace  below  the  well  a  fig-tree,  quite  denuded 
of  its  leaves,  held  aloft  a  few  figs  right  on  the  tips  of  its  top- 
most twigs.  Joanna  thought  some  giant's  child  might  have 
stuck  them  there  for  fun.  No  one  would  ever  get  them  off  now. 

As  she  sat  there  dreaming  and  idle,  half  against  her  own  will, 
she  began  to  survey  her  new  existence. 

That  afternoon,  when  Maddalena  had  finished  her  siesta, 
they  would  go  together  into  Florence  to  the  shops.  They 
would  not  even  walk  as  far  as  the  Ouerce,  but  would  wait  for 
the  Fiesole  tram  at  the  bottom  of  the  rough  lane  which  led 
from  the  villa ;  and  while  they  waited,  Maddalena  would  sit  to 
rest  on  one  of  the  green  iron  chairs  in  front  of  the  trattoria 
where  Mario  kept  his  bicycle.  During  the  journey  to  town 
Joanna  would  catch  glimpses  of  Italy  that  were  almost  too 
tantalizing  to  bear — glimpses  of  a  hidden  court-yard,  a  little 
piazza  with  a  spouting  fountain,  a  shop-window,  a  narrow, 
tempting  street,  a  secretive  palace.  This  was  her  Italy — 
glimpses  and  dreams.  She  was  hungry  to  see  everything  more 
closely  and  at  leisure.  But  on  plunged  the  tram  with  much 
pounding  of  bells  and  tooting  of  horns  to  the  Duomo.  And 
at  the  Duomo  they  would  at  once  hire  a  vetturino  to  take  them 
from  one  shop  to  another. 

Each  article  had  to  be  bought  at  a  different  shop,  and  as 
Maddalena  was  very  particular,  each  purchase  demanded  time 
and  deliberation,  quite  apart  from  the  great  final  haggle  over 
the  price.  Maddalena  did  beautiful  Florentine  needlework, 
and  all  the  materials  had  to  be  of  the  best.  In  one  shop  she 
bought  the  linen:  and  the  salesman  had  to  lift  down  roll  after 
roll  of  the  cool,  fine,  woven  flax  from  his  high  shelves  before 
his  customer  was  satisfied.  Even  then  she  would  look  over 
every  metre  herself  before  consenting  to  beat  down  the  price. 
Xo  thick  thread,  no  flaw  of  uneven  weaving  escaped  her  black 
eyes,  and  she  was  held  in  great  respect  by  the  shop-people. 
Her  needles  and  reels  came  from  another  shop — the  only  place 


120  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

in  Florence,  she  told  Joanna,  where  thread  could  be  depended 
on.  It  was  near  the  Or  San  Michele,  and  beside  it  was  another 
for  embroidery  frames  and  hoops.  Here  to-day,  a  frame  was 
to  be  bought  for  Joanna  who  was  being  taught  drawn-thread 
work.  But  the  shop  that  took  up  most  time  of  all,  was  the 
tiny  one  on  the  Lung  'Arno,  where  squares  and  long  insertions 
and  medallions  of  hand-made  filet  were  to  be  had.  Maddalena 
went  there  not  so  much  to  buy  (for  it  was  a  trap  for  tourists) 
as  to  learn  new  patterns  and  stitches.  And  Joanna  knew  that 
they  would  spend  nearly  an  hour  there,  looking  over  piles  of 
delicately  fashioned  dragons,  and  ships  in  full  sail,  and  wolves 
suckling  Romulus  and  Remus,  before  Maddalena  bought  the 
one  small  piece  she  had  come  for.  After  that,  most  likely  they 
would  go  to  Gilli's  for  Maddalena 's  glass  of  marsala,  and  Joanna 
would  refuse  the  sweet  wine  in  spite  of  persuasion,  greedily 
drinking  instead  some  China  tea  that  tasted  of  straw,  and  eat- 
ing little  cakes  stuffed  with  chestnuts. 

Maddalena,  who,  with  her  mustache,  her  dense  body,  her 
dark,  slightly  twisted  face,  and  her  deep  voice,  had  something 
of  the  schoolmistress  about  her,  was  trying  to  instruct  her 
brother's  wife.  She  had  taken  to  Joanna  immediately,  and 
Joanna  felt  warm  to  her.  But  to  the  Italian  woman  the  girl 
from  Scotland  seemed  almost  as  ill-educated  as  a  savage. 
Maddalena  could  not,  for  example,  get  over  her  sister-in-law's 
ignorance  of  all  languages  save  her  own,  and  though  she  her- 
self spoke  English  almost  as  well  as  her  brother,  she  refused 
as  a  rule  to  speak  it  with  Joanna.  If  Joanna  didn't  under- 
stand what  had  been  said  in  Italian,  it  would  be  repeated  in 
French.  Often  the  girl  wondered  what  she  had  been  doing 
during  her  eight  years  at  the  excellent  school  in  Glasgow. 
Her  own  ignorance  appalled  her. 

Another  source  of  amazement  to  Maddalena,  was  Joanna's 
general  untidiness.  She  was  never  ill-humored  about  it,  only 
boundlessly  astonished;  for  the  gently  bred  Italian  girl  is 
unfailingly  and  scrupulously  tidy.  One  day  she  caught  Joanna 
in  the  act  which  had  so  often  grieved  Juley.  The  girl  was 
kicking  off  her  outdoor  shoes  without  untying  the  laces,  and 
the  older  woman  cried  aloud  in  horror.  She  snatched  up  the 
shoes,  examined  their  scratched  heels,  almost  in  tears,  and  a 
flood  of  deprecatory  speech  flowed  from  her. 

"  And  where  are  your  shoe-trees?  "  she  demanded  at  length. 

Joanna  confessed  she  had  none. 


OPENTHEDOOR  121 

"No  shoe-trees!  Mother  of  God!  "  Maddalena  exclaimed 
in  her  masculine  voice,  so  harsh,  yet  so  warm,  and  she  cast 
her  eyes  up  till  the  whites  gleamed  in  her  olive  face.  Next 
day  she  made  Joanna  buy  enough  trees  for  all  her  shoes. 

She  had  laughed  and  cried  over  Joanna's  trousseau,  declar- 
ing it  was  "  all  bits." 

"  Not  two  chemises  alike!"  she  marveled.  "  And  Dio  mio! 
the  fineness  of  this  nightgown!  With  us  only  demi-mondaines 
want  such  things:  why,  it  will  be  in  ribbons  in  no  time.  Ah! 
You  see.  Here!  What  did  I  say?  Already  a  tear  under  the 
arm.  That  is  where  they  always  go  first.  The  other  side 
too!  Santa  Vergine!  You  English!  Is  this  what  you  name 
a  darn?  " 

And  there  and  then  she  had  made  Joanna  unpick  her  hasty 
mending  with  a  special  pair  of  fine  scissors,  and  had  showed 
her  how  a  darn  should  look. 

It  was  impossible  to  take  anything  she  might  say,  in  bad 
part,  and  Joanna  had  learned  more  from  her  sister-in-law  of 
material  efficiency  in  a  few  weeks  than  from  her  mother  in 
years  of  despairing  correction.  She  had  learned  to  admire 
order  for  its  own  sake,  which  was  at  least  a  step  towards  its 
achievement.  With  a  good  will  she  had  set  about  embroidering 
her  initials — J.  E.  R. — on  every  one  of  her  under-garments,  and 
Maddalena's  ready  praise  of  her  clever,  if  untrained  fingers, 
was  very  pleasant.  In  a  short  time  she  actually  felt  uncom- 
fortable if  she  didn't  put  her  shoes  on  their  trees  the  moment 
she  had  taken  them  off. 

But  the  life  they  led  at  the  villa  did  not  satisfy  her.  And 
as  she  sat  by  the  well  this  morning,  her  dissatisfaction  began 
to  take  form  in  her  thoughts.  She  saw  Maddalena's  existence, 
so  complete,  so  productive  of  contentment,  and  having  the 
charm  of  success.  And  beside  it  she  placed  her  mother's  in- 
effectual, uncomfortable  struggle.  And  she  could  not  over- 
come the  belief  that  her  mother's  way  of  life  was  the  better, 
that  it  was  inexplicably  finer,  nobler,  more  winning. 

The  comparison  roused  her,  and  she  turned  on  herself  in 
terrified  disgust. 

"  What  am  I?  And  what  am  I  doing?  "  she  asked  herself; 
and  her  face  burned  with  shame  at  the  answers  she  had  to 
give  to  these  questions.  She  had  accepted  the  role  for  which 
Mario  had  cast  her.  She  had  drugged  her  spirit,  had  lived  for 
her  husband's  return  in  the  evenings,  had  dreamed  through- 


122  OPENTHEDOOR 

out  the  day  of  the  night's  coming  embraces.  Was  this  mar- 
riage? No,  it  could  not  be.  Or  if  it  were,  there  was  something 
wrong  about  it — something  at  any  rate  that  was  wrong  for 
her. 

Not  for  nothing  had  Juley  nurtured  her  babes  on  the  belief 
that  God  has  a  spiritual  purpose  in  the  life  of  each  one  of  his 
creatures,  and  a  purpose  for  the  fulfilment  of  which  the  crea- 
ture is  largely  responsible.  Joanna  had  tried  more  than  once 
to  express  something  of  this  to  Mario;  but  he  had  condemned 
such  ideas  as  pernicious  and  egoistic,  and  she  understood 
perfectly  what  he  meant.  Yet  there  it  was — hardly  so  much 
an  idea  for  Juley 's  children  as  a  fact,  a  thing  bred  in  their 
bones  by  generations  of  prayer  and  faith  and  sacrifice.  Mario 
might  say  what  he  liked;  he  might  even  be  right:  but  here  and 
now  Joanna  knew  that  she  would  never  get  wholly  away 
from  it. 

As  if  to  meet  the  new,  if  still  vague  independence  rising  in 
her,  she  sprang  to  her  feet  and  walked  along  the  terrace  to 
the  little  garden  gate  which  led  to  the  steep  lane  called  the 
Via  Barbacane.  Pausing  there  for  a  moment  she  looked 
swiftly  about  her.  She  could  hear  a  contadino  singing  at  the 
top  of  his  voice  behind  the  outhouses  as  he  picked  olives,  and 
every  now  and  then  he  made  a  rustling  in  the  tree  like  a  great 
bird,  though  he  never  faltered  in  his  loud,  heart-breaking  song. 
Joanna  stood  so  still,  listening  and  looking,  that  on  the  warm 
hard  earth  of  the  path  a  lizard  darted  between  her  feet.  But 
there  was  no  human  being  to  be  seen;  and  drawing  a  long 
breath  she  slipped  out  of  the  garden  arl  started  running  up 
the  hillside. 

It  was  very  exciting  to  be  out  alone  against  Mario's  orders, 
and  the  excitement  added  a  glowing  quality  to  the  beauty 
the  girl  saw  on  either  hand.  The  walled  lane  ran  between 
poderi  of  plowed  land,  and  over  the  walls  the  olive  trees 
stretched  their  branches,  now  thickly  strung  with  harvest-ripe 
fruit.  Here  and  there  the  muscular,  gray  wood  had  thrust  its 
gnarled  elbows  through  the  stone-work,  making  it  bulge  dan- 
gerously, and  in  places  dislodging  it  altogether.  All  the  way 
up  the  hill  one  one  side,  a  hedge  of  monthly  roses,  full  two 
yards  high,  ran  along  the  wall's  top.  It  was  lusty  and  lovely — 
thickly  covered  still  with  its  shell-like  flowers,  which  showed 
more  fragile  than  ever  because  of  the  hale  scarlet  and  yellow 
hips  which  were  maturing  on  the  same  stems  as  the  new  buds. 


OPENTHEDOOR  123 

And  between  the  gaps  of  the  hedge,  and  above  it,  was  the  blue, 
blue  sky  of  the  Tramontana. 

Joanna,  all  her  blood  dancing,  climbed  as  far  as  a  little 
balustraded  platform  of  stone  which  curved  out  to  her  left 
where  the  wall  ended,  in  a  graceful  semi-circle.  A  stone  bench 
ran  round  it,  and  its  playful  builder  had  decorated  it  with 
pillars  bearing  fir  cones  on  their  capitals. 

She  knelt  on  the  seat,  leaned  her  elbows  on  the  ledge,  and 
looked  down  at  the  world  lying  in  a  bath  of  morning  sunshine. 
Her  eyes  wandered  from  Florence  to  the  gray  hillsides  that 
glittered  when  the  air  moved.  She  looked  at  the  yellow  villas, 
blind  and  basking.  She  remembered  one — almost  hidden  from 
here  among  its  cypresses — which  Mario  had  pointed  out  as  the 
home  of  a  woman  celebrated  for  her  loves.  La  Porziuncola  it 
had  been  called,  and  Joanna  had  a  vivid  memory  of  the  little 
sunken  door  in  the  wall,  where  it  was  said  the  lover  was  wont 
to  enter.  On  one  of  their  rare  walks  Mario  had  taken  her 
past  it. 

But  now,  as  she  looked,  La  Porziuncola,  the  other  shuttered 
villas,  the  restless,  glittering  spume  of  olives  on  the  slopes,  the 
quieter  shining  of  Florence  and  her  Arno,  seemed  to  her  but  a 
part  of  the  passing  dream  which  was  her  marriage. 

"  It  can't  go  on,"  she  thought.  "  It  won't  last.  It  isn't 
real.  It  is  playing  at  something — pretending,  as  children  pre- 
tend when  they  play." 

The  very  strength  of  the  December  sunshine  struck  her  as 
incredible,  and  the  hillsides  were  soulless,  surely. 

Yet  it  was  no  dream.  The  seat  was  hard,  and  its  cold  struck 
through  to  her  knees.  She  really  was  disobeying  Mario  in 
being  here.  She  really  had  a  husband  and  a  jailer,  who  at  this 
moment  was  somewhere  down  there  absorbed  in  his  beloved 
machinery. 

Joanna  recalled  the  happy  oblivion  on  his  face  whenever  he 
was  busy  about  his  bicycle.  That  very  morning  Maddalena 
and  she  had  gone  down  as  far  as  the  steps  at  the  end  of  the 
lane  to  see  him  off.  They  had  stood  there  hatless,  trembling 
a  little  in  the  early  freshness,  but  enjoying  it,  while  he  got 
his  machine  out  of  the  trattoria.  He  had  touched  it  here  and 
there  with  loving  hands  to  see  that  all  was  right,  and  had 
frowned  at  something  which  he  said  would  soon  want  repair- 
ing. Then  he  had  kissed  Joanna's  hand,  started  with  unusual 
difficulty,  and  waved  his  hat  without  turning  his  head.  The 


i24  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

two  women  had  waited,  looking  after  him  till  he  disappeared 
round  a  far  corner  and  only  the  distant  pulsing  of  the  engine 
came  back  to  them. 

And  scarcely  three  hours  had  passed  since  then.  How 
many  hours  were  there  till  his  return?  Joanna  counted  on 
her  fingers,  and  sighed.  Yes,  he  was  still  her  lover.  She  still 
looked  eagerly  for  his  coming,  and  in  the  pleasure  of  greeting 
him,  sought  compensation  for  the  empty  hours  of  his  absence. 

But  this  evening,  she  determined  she  would  tell  him  some 
of  her  morning  thoughts,  persisting  till  he  came  to  understand 
her  trouble.  She  would  ask  him  to  help  her,  would  show 
that  somehow  their  love  was  at  stake.  She  remembered  a 
phrase  of  her  mother's  in  a  talk  they  had  had  during  her 
engagement.  "  It  is  easy  enough  to  fall  in  love,  my  childie," 
Juley  had  said,  "  but  to  love  wisely  is  sometimes  very  hard." 

The  mere  thought,  repudiated  at  first,  that  love  was  hard, 
came  to  Joanna  now  as  a  stimulating  discovery.  Of  course 
it  w?s  hard.  It  needed  courage  to  love.  Acquiescence  was 
not  the  way.  And  at  once  she  pictured  herself  walking  up 
the  lane  with  Mario  when  he  got  home,  persuading  him  to 
come  with  her  as  far  as  the  stone  seat,  telling  him  how  she 
had  come  there  earlier,  by  herself. 

This  she  must  tell  him,  even  if  it  made  him  angry.  He 
must  not  hear  of  it  first  through  Maddalena.  And  fearful 
that  Maddalena  might  at  that  very  moment  be  looking  for 
her  by  the  well  to  give  her  an  embroidery  lesson,  Joanna  rose 
and  hastened  back  towards  the  house. 

As  she  turned  the  last  corner,  coming  quickly  downhill,  she 
saw  that  two  men  stood  on  the  road  just  outside  the  garden 
gate. 

Immediately  she  was  struck  by  disquiet.  There  was  some 
oddness  in  the  way  they  were  talking,  turning  constantly  to 
look  up  towards  the  villa,  yet  not  going  in.  One  of  them,  a 
tall  man  with  thick  iron-gray  hair,  carried  his  hat  in  his  hand, 
and  kept  mopping  his  brow  with  a  blue  silk  handkerchief. 
He  seemed  terribly  worried  with  the  sun  full  in  his  face.  The 
other,  who  had  his  back  to  Joanna,  was  small,  and  spick  and 
span. 

The  absurd  idea  darted  through  the  girl's  brain  that  Mario 
had  sent  these  people  from  Florence  to  spy  upon  her.  She 
could  not  believe  them  ordinary  visitors.  Now  they  were 
crossing  the  ditch  by  the  little  paved  bridge  from  the  lane; 


OPENTHEDOOR  125 

but  again  they  hesitated  uneasily  before  going  on.  They 
looked  almost  felonious,  and  the  smaller  carried  a  black  bag. 

Joanna  wondered  if  she  could  possibly  slip  past  by  the  upper 
terrace,  and  so  get  unseen  to  the  house  before  them.  By  the 
time  she  reached  the  gate  they  had  disappeared  round  a 
bend  in  the  path.  Perhaps  she  was  too  late!  Breathlessly  she 
scrambled  across  to  the  higher  path,  and  flew  round  by  the 
podere. 

But  as  she  came  down  the  flight  of  rough  stone  steps  close  to 
the  villa,  she  saw  that  she  was  caught. 

Immediately  below  her,  on  her  right,  were  the  two  men, 
both  now  holding  their  hats  in  their  hands:  and  on  her  left, 
Maddalena,  with  a  question  in  her  face  moved  from  the  house 
to  meet  them. 

Then  Maddalena  had  been  in  the  garden  looking  for  her 
thought  Joanna.  What  should  she  do?  She  might  still  go 
back,  and  run  round  behind  the  house,  entering  by  the  other 
side.  They  had  not  noticed  her.  But  she  found  she  could 
not  stir  from  the  spot.  She  had  to  wait.  She  must  see  the 
meeting  between  the  men  and  Maddalena,  to  whom  clearly 
they  were  strangers. 

Now  they  had  met.  The  tall  man  started  mopping  his  brow 
again:  the  little  man  was  speaking. 

Suddenly  Maddalena 's  hand  flew  to  her  mouth.  She  ut- 
tered a  loud  scream.  And  Joanna,  leaping  down  the  stone 
steps,  was  too  late  to  help.  Her  sister-in-law  had  slipped  down 
quite  neatly  and  softly  and  was  lying  all  her  length  across  the 

terrace. 

***** 

Mario  was  dead,  Joanna  knew  that  before  they  could  tell 
her. 

He  had  been  killed  in  the  Cascine.  His  "  auto  velocipede," 
the  men  said,  had  collided  with  a  carriage.  Death  must  have 
been  instantaneous.  His  body  was  at  the  mortuary  of  the 
Misericordia,  whither  the  Brothers  had  carried  it  from  the 
scene  of  the  accident.  The  smaller  of  the  two  men  who  was 
a  doctor,  begged  Joanna  not  to  go  there.  And  he  looked  her 
up  and  down  searchingly  with  his  wise  eyes.  The  coffin  could 
be  brought  home  later,  if  they  wished  it,  he  said.  But  better 
have  the  funeral  from  the  mortuary.  Anyhow,  God  help  them, 
not  to  look  upon  the  poor,  shattered  body.  It  had  been  a 
terrible  accident,  terrible.  But  no  suffering.  That  was  some- 


126  OPENTHEDOOR 

thing.  All  must  have  been  over  in  a  second  of  time.  The 
poor  signore  had  been  riding  his  auto-velocipede  at  great  speed, 
and  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  road,  at  one  of  those  sharp 
crossings  near  the  race-course.  The  coachman  of  the  carriage 
must  be  exonerated  in  the  matter.  He  was,  poor  fellow,  in  a 
state  of  collapse.  But  he  had  not  been  to  blame.  Undoubt- 
edly the  signore  had  been  riding  on  the  wrong  side. 

All  the  things  from  Mario's  pockets  were  in  the  doctor's 
bag.  Word  of  the  accident  had  first  been  taken  to  the  office, 
that  address  being  the  only  one  to  be  found  on  the  body. 
There  the  manager  had  done  all  that  remained  to  be  done. 
The  tall  man  was  the  manager  from  the  office.  Joanna 
remembered  afterwards  how  the  loose  flesh  of  his  face  hung 
down  under  his  cheeks  and  chin,  like  a  hound's  dew-laps:  and 
he  had  great  pouches  under  his  eyes. 

IX 

After  the  funeral,  Joanna  did  not  see  the  sun  for  a  fortnight. 
She  never  went  out,  not  even  to  the  garden. 

She  alone  had  followed  the  coffin  to  the  grave,  for  Madda- 
lena  still  lay  in  a  darkened  room.  But  she  had  not  seen  her 
dead  husband.  The  Brothers  at  the  Misericordia  supported 
the  doctor  in  this;  and  thinking  to  treasure  her  last  sight  of 
him  alive,  Joanna  had  not  insisted.  The  bicycle,  she  had  seen. 
It  was  crushed  and  twisted,  as  might  have  been  a  penny  toy. 

She  did  not  weep.  But  when  she  was  not  tending  Maddalena 
she  sat  huddled  up,  her  head  on  her  hands,  her  eyes  starting 
into  distance.  And  a  deep  vertical  line  came  between  her 
brows. 

At  first,  all  the  time,  and  again  and  again,  she  was  irresistibly 
trying  to  re-live  the  experience  which  had  been  Mario's  in  the 
moment  of  meeting  death.  It  was  as  if,  before  grieving  for 
her  own  loss,  she  must  share  this  thing  with  him.  She  saw 
the  cross-roads,  where  she  had  once  been  with  him,  the  hidden, 
noiseless  carriage,  the  tearing  bicycle,  with  Mario  on  it — 
part  of  it.  There  must  have  been  one  clear,  frantic  moment 
of  knowledge.  Then  the  smash.  Joanna  lived  through  it 
with  every  sinew  and  nerve  in  her  body  strung.  They  had 
brought  not  a  word,  not  even  a  cry  for  her  to  hold  on  to. 
If  only  there  had  come  the  smallest  message.  Why  had  he 
been  riding  on  the  wrong  side.  It  was  not  like  him.  Yet  it 
was  like  him  to  be  wiped  out  in  a  moment. 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  127 

In  spite  of  her  obedience  to  the  Brothers,  when  she  tried 
now  to  call  up  the  white,  vivid  face  which  had  been  so  delight- 
ful to  her,  she  could  only  see  it  agonized,  infuriated,  or  pit- 
eously  disfigured.  Was  it  because  she  had  disobeyed  him  that 
last  day?  Why  else  should  he  look  so  angry  with  her  in  death? 
Why  else  should  he  be  riding  on  the  wrong  side?  She  tried 
to  put  the  thought  from  her,  but  it  recurred.  Each  night  she 
prayed  on  her  knees  that  she  might  dream  of  him  smiling 
at  her;  but  she  slept  hardly  at  all,  and  when  she  did  she  started 
awake  with  murder  on  her  soul. 

Letters  came  from  home — a  few  shy  lines  from  each  of  the 
boys,  a  long  scrawl  from  Georgie — very  affectionate,  and  beg- 
ging her  sister  to  use  the  words  "  passed  on "  instead  of 
"  died," — and  from  her  mother  almost  daily  letters,  which  by 
the  many  erasures  Joanna  knew  had  been  written  in  forbidden 
hours.  Juley  had  at  once  offered  to  come  to  Italy.  But  the 
girl  forbade  it,  saying  she  would  herself  come  home  as  soon  as 
she  could  leave  Maddalena  in  the  company  of  an  old  friend 
who  was  coming  from  Sicily  to  be  with  her. 

To  return  home  seemed  the  only  reasonable  course.  Joanna 
had  come  to  feel  a  great  tenderness  for  Maddalena.  She  was 
moved  as  well  as  surprised  to  find  how  the  elder  woman  clung 
to  her.  For  Mario's  death  had  worked  a  curious  change  be- 
tween the  two  women;  and  now  it  was  the  southerner  who 
with  every  action  betrayed  her  spiritual  dependence  on  the 
northerner.  But  save  for  Maddalena  there  was  no  life  for 
Joanna  in  Florence,  and  as  the  days  crept  past  and  past,  she 
had  to  admit  that  life  was  still  before  her.  In  time  Madda- 
lena would  once  more  take  up  the  orderly  threads  of  existence 
in  her  efficient  hands,  and  the  friend  from  Sicily  would  probably 
make  her  home  at  the  villa.  But  Joanna  could  not  consent 
to  live  on  her  sister-in-law.  Apart  from  the  remnant  of 
Mario's  savings — a  bare  fifty  pounds — she  was  left  without 
money.  No.  She  must  go  back  to  Glasgow  and  learn  how 
to  live.  There  were  listless  hours,  wasted  years  to  be  made 
good.  She  felt  rather  like  a  child  who  has  played  truant  from 
school,  and  is  led  back  to  its  task. 

Joanna  decided  that  she  would  break  the  return  journey 
at  Viareggio,  there  to  see  Aunt  Perdy  and  deliver  Juley's 
present.  A  visit  had  more  than  once  been  suggested,  but  till 
now  it  had  not  been  practicable. 

At  the  station  in  Florence  she  hung  round   Maddalena's 


128  OPEN    THE   DOOR 

neck.  Though  Maddalena's  face  was  swollen  above  the  high, 
tight-fitting,  black  neck-band,  and  her  eyelids  were  sodden 
and  puffy,  she  seemed  to  have  shed  all  her  tears.  But  amid 
the  distractions  of  packing  it  was  two  days  since  Joanna  had 
cried,  and  now  her  eyes  streamed.  People  looked  with  open 
expressions  of  sympathy  at  the  embracing  women  dressed  in 
deepest  Continental  mourning.  At  first  Joanna  had  tried  to 
keep  some  moderation  in  her  weeds,  but  seeing  at  once  that  her 
sister-in-law  would  be  hurt  by  any  opposition  in  the  matter, 
she  had  become  passive.  It  would  be  easy  to  modify  her  dress 
when  she  reached  home.  Now  she  wore  a  skirt  bordered  with 
a  hem  of  crape  half  a  yard  deep,  and  a  bodice  without  an 
inch  of  white  anywhere.  And  the  black  veiling  which  fell  from 
the  brim  of  her  hat,  reached  almost  to  her  heels  at  the  back. 
With  her  youth  and  her  white  skin  she  was  notable,  and  she  felt 
like  an  adventuress.  A  pang  of  surprised  amusement  shot 
through  her  when  she  thought  what  Mario's  feelings  would 
have  been  at  seeing  her  thus  conspicuous.  It  was  as  if,  far 
down  in  the  dark  mourning  waters  a  silver  bubble  of  laughter 
were  released  and  struggling  upwards.  The  inclination  to 
laugh  was  intense,  inebriating.  It  seemed  years  since  she  had 
laughed.  For  a  wild  moment  she  thought  she  must  spout 
her  soul  out  in  an  eruption  of  the  old  school-girl  madness  of 
laughter.  But  the  moment  passed;  and  she  only  hugged  Mad- 
dalena  the  tighter  because  of  it,  and  smiled  at  her  the  more 
tenderly. 

When  the  train  bore  her  out  of  the  station  and  into  the 
sunshine  of  the  unstricken  world,  a  new,  rare  spring  of  happi- 
ness came  welling  up  suddenly  in  her  life.  She  had  no  definite 
thought  of  its  source.  She  merely  knew  that  somehow,  un- 
deservedly, she  had  escaped.  The  words  passed  through  her 
mind :  "  Our  soul  is  escaped  as  a  bird  out  of  the  snare  of  the 
fowlers;  the  snare  is  broken  and  we  are  escaped."  In  spite 
of  a  voice  of  denial  deep-buried  in  her,  she  saw  herself  in 
the  image  of  a  dove. 

But  it  was  with  more  than  the  wood-pigeon's  wildness  that 
she  was  now  spreading  her  wings.  In  her  body  she  still  grieved 
for  Mario;  but  she  was  unbroken,  and  still  hungry  for  life 
which  was  only  beginning.  Though  she  was  going  home,  she 
was  not  going  back — not  going  with  the  man  from  Edinburgh. 
Home  was  the  next  step  forward;  that  was  all.  And  now  that 
she  knew  how  ill-equipped  she  was,  she  must  work.  How 


OPENTHEDOOR  139 

she  must  work!  As  the  train  ran  on  through  the  singing 
fields,  Joanna  drank  the  sunshine  with  an  overflowing  heart. 
Like  one  who  has  done  murder  in  self-defence,  and  is  reprieved, 
she  was  full  of  honey-sweet  defiance  against  death. 

It  was  still  early  in  the  afternoon  when  she  climbed  down 
from  the  train  at  Viareggio. 

For  a  moment  she  looked  about  her  lost.  Had  no  one 
come  to  meet  her  after  all? 

Then  she  knew  for  her  Aunt,  an  outlandish  figure  which 
came  flying  towards  her  from  the  far  end  of  the  station,  as  if 
on  fawn-colored  wings. 

The  wings,  on  a  nearer  view,  turned  out  to  be  the  cape- 
sleeves  of  a  buff  dolman  which  had  been  fashionable  ten  or. 
twelve  years  before,  and  which  Perdy  always  wore  on  her 
rare  descents  to  the  town.  As  she  ran  to  meet  her  niece, 
this  garment  fled  apart  in  front,  showing  the  coarse  full  skirt 
of  a  contadina,  and  her  zoccoli  clacked  sharply  on  the  hard 
track,  as  her  heels  in  their  thick,  red  cotton  socks  parted  from 
the  wooden  soles  with  every  step.  On  her  head  was  a  man's 
tweed  cap,  with  the  peak  pulled  well  over  her  eyes.  And  under 
it  her  short  hair  showed,  cut  in  a  thick  fringe. 

Joanna  immediately  dropped  her  luggage  and  went  blushing 
to  meet  her  mother's  sister.  And  after  Maddalena's  hundredth 
embrace  Aunt  Perdy's  first  was  like  a  home-coming.  Was 
it  the  voice,  the  intonation,  the  sweetish  odor  of  her  breath, 
or  something  in  the  feeling  of  her  arms,  wondered  the  girl, 
that  made  her  at  once  so  familiar?  In  Aunt  Perdy's  face, 
with  its  strangely  formed  lips  and  burning  eyes,  Joanna  could 
not  see  much  likeness  to  her  mother  or  to  Georgie;  yet  it  was 
as  if  she  were  hugging  and  being  hugged  by  both  of  them; 
and  by  Linnet  and  Sholto  too.  She  felt  herself  taken  to  the 
family  bosom. 

Aunt  Perdy,  when  she  had  kissed  Joanna  repeatedly  on 
both  cheeks,  held  her  off  by  the  shoulders,  saying  she  must 
have  "  a  good  look  "  at  her.  But  in  a  trice  her  steadfast  gaze 
went  from  her  niece's  glowing  face  to  the  long  widow's  veil 
which  floated  behind. 

"  Fie,  for  shame,  child!  "  she  exclaimed,  stretching  her  hand 
over  Joanna's  shoulder  and  drawing  the  trail  of  crape  towards 
her.  "You — an  Erskine! — to  wear  such  a  thing!  As  though 
we  were  of  those  that  sorrow  without  hope.  I'm  amazed  at 
you.  Is  that  all  my  poor  sister  has  taught  her  girls?  " 


130  OPEN    THE    DOOR 

Joanna  tried  to  explain  that  she  had  not  wished  to  hurt 
her  sister-in-law's  feelings.  But  Aunt  Perdy  would  not  listen. 

"Weak,  weak!  "  she  said,  shaking  her  head.  "  But  'tis 
written  on  your  face.  The  moment  I  met  you,  I  saw  it.  You 
are  too  yielding.  I  used  to  be  too  yielding.  Life  has  taught 
me  better,  though.  You  know  what  dear  Browning  says? — 

'That  rage  was  right  in  the  main,  that  acquiescence  vain,—  ?' 

And  remember  that  though  we  are  told  that  Christ,  '  pleased 
not  Himself,'  we  know  very  well  that  neither  did  He  please 
others!  But  see,  we'll  say  no  more  now.  Luckily  I  always 
carry  my  shears  with  me." 

Aunt  Perdy  groped  under  her  wonderful  dolman  among  the 
folds  of  her  skirt,  and  presently  brought  to  light  a  long  pair 
of  scissors  which  were  fastened  by  several  yards  of  tape  to 
her  waist.  She  then  walked  slowly  round  Joanna,  command- 
ing her  to  stand  still  while  she  cut  off  the  draperies  of  widow- 
hood. 

"There,  that's  better!  "  she  said.  She  was  delighted  as  a 
child  with  her  work.  "  And  now  give  Auntie  another  hearty 
kiss!  " 

Again  she  pressed  Joanna  to  her  breast,  again  held  her  off 
for  inspection,  exclaiming,  as  if  she  now  saw  her  for  the  first 
time,  "  So  this  is  Juley's  little  daughter!  " 

By  this  time  everybody  in  the.  station  was  staring  at  them; 
staring  not  rudely  or  furtively  as  people  would  have  stared  in 
England,  but  with  unconcealed  interest,  and  encouraging  smiles 
for  such  a  display  of  family  emotion.  (It  is  only  in  the  matter 
of  sex  that  the  Italian  is  ill-mannered.)  And  while  Joanna 
felt  that  she  would  have  been  welcomed  quite  as  warmly 
without  onlookers,  she  knew  her  Aunt  was  stimulated  by  their 
audience.  "  This  is  an  historical  meeting,"  Perdy  seemed  to 
say,  with  a  careless  invitation  to  the  public,  "  between  a  very 
remarkable  woman  and  her  niece.  Look  on  by  all  means. 
It  does  not  matter  to  me;  nor  to  her,  if  she  is  indeed  my 
niece!  " 

To  the  gnarled,  old  peasant  whom  she  had  brought  with  her 
to  carry  the  luggage,  she  announced  Joanna  as  her  Scottish 
niece,  and  the  man  nodded  and  smiled.  He  had  to  congratu- 
late the  Signora  on  having  so  beautiful  a  relation,  with  a  face 
like  the  Blessed  Virgin's,  and  all  the  way  from  Scotland  too! 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  131 

They  left  the  station,  and  the  peasant  took  them  in  a  cart 
through  the  town,  over  the  canal  where  men  naked  to  the 
waist  were  lifting  great  blocks  of  marble  out  of  barges,  and 
across  a  stretch  of  perfectly  flat  country  till  they  reached 
Torre  del  Lago. 

From  here  they  were  to  climb  on  foot  to  Aunt  Perdy's  cot- 
tage; and  the  man  Tommaso  drove  off  to  put  the  pony  up, 
leaving  the  women  to  wait  by  the  roadside  with  the  luggage  till 
his  return. 

He  would  be  gone  about  twenty  minutes,  Aunt  Perdy  said; 
so  she  and  Joanna  carried  their  belongings  between  them, 
from  the  road  to  the  shore  of  the  lake  which  was  only  a  short 
way  off.  It  would  be  pleasanter  to  wait  there. 

Joanna  was  entranced  by  the  pale,  outspread  sheet  of  water, 
so  different  from  any  of  the  lochs  at  home.  A  mirage,  she 
thought,  must  look  like  this.  Even  before  Aunt  Perdy  told  her, 
she  had  known  it  must  be  quite  shallow  all  over. 

When  they  had  been  sitting  there  a  few  minutes  a  small,  flat- 
bottomed  boat  ran  softly  in  to  shore,  not  far  from  them,  swish- 
ing between  the  parted  reeds;  and  the  two  men  in  it  stepped 
over  the  side,  and  hauled  their  craft  easily  some  yards  inland 
among  the  bushes. 

Joanna  and  Aunt  Perdy  watched,  and  as  the  men  left  the 
boat  and  made  for  the  road,  Aunt  Perdy's  short-sighted  eyes 
narrowed,  straining  in  their  direction. 

"  What  are  they  carrying,  Aunt  Perdy?  "  asked  Joanna, 
a  note  of  childish  horror  in  her  voice.  "  They  look  like  big 
bunches  of  feathers — but  they  seem  so  heavy.  Oh!  But  they 
are  birds!  And  I  believe  they  are  fluttering!  They  are  alive?  " 

But  already  her  companion  was  gone,  and  had  descended 
upon  the  two  peasants  like  a  whirlwind. 

"  Slaves  and  cowards!  "  Aunt  Perdy  was  saying  in  her 
peculiar  but  voluble  Italian,  when  Joanna  came  up  with  them. 
"  Ill-educated,  without  intelligence,  pieces  of  brute-beasts!  " 
(She  spared  them  none  of  the  phrases  most  wounding  to 
Italians.)  "Was  it  for  this,  Niccolo,  that  I  nursed  your  wife 
night  and  day  for  a  week  when  she  was  delivered  of  twins? 
And  you,  Francesco!  You,  whose  sweet  name-saint  was 
the  little  brother  of  the  birds!  Are  you  not  ashamed  to 
fill  your  disgusting  belly  with  the  flesh  of  these  little,  happy 
bones?  " 

"  I  do  not  eat  them,  Signora,"  said  Francesco  sheepishly. 


i32  OPEN    THE    DOOR 

"  They  are  for  the  market.  Times  are  hard.  A  man  must 
live." 

Aunt  Perdy  stamped  her  foot  in  its  zoccolo. 

"Idiot!"  she  retorted.  "God  have  patience  with  you, 
for  the  saints  never  will!  How  much  do  you  suppose  you 
will  get  for  them  in  Viareggio?  " 

"  Two  soldi  apiece,  Signora." 

"  Let  me  buy  them  from  him,"  pleaded  Joanna,  and  she 
felt  for  her  purse.  She  could  not  take  her  eyes  off  the  birds 
— alive  and  hanging  there  in  four  great  bunches.  But  firmly, 
almost  roughly,  her  aunt  caught  back  her  hand. 

"Hold  your  tongue,  silly  child!  "  she  said.  "Francesco, 
you  cannot  impose  upon  the  Scottish  Signora.  You  know 
perfectly  that  in  the  time  it  takes  you  to  snare  ihe  rondinelli 
and  carry  them  to  the  market,  you  could  earn  twice  as  much 
by  digging  my  garden.  It  is  only  because  you  are  lazy  and 
cruel  that  you  prefer  to  make  a  few  soldi  by  taking  life.  And 
what  happens  to  the  money?  Ah!  Yes  indeed!  How 
many  soldi  return  wath  you  out  of  the  little  wine-shop  in  the 
Via  Cavour?  Eh,  you,  Niccolo?  Your  wife  told  me  some 
pretty  things  when  she  was  ill.  And  Francesco  need  not 
grin,  for  he  is  little  better.  You  will  set  the  birds  free  at 
once,  or  I  promise  you  get  no  help  from  me  the  next  time 
trouble  comes." 

Niccolo  and  Francesco  accepted  the  situation.  They  had 
been  at  work  snaring  the  lake  swallows  since  before  dawn; 
but  now  they  merely  looked  once  at  one  another  and  shrugged. 

Aunt  Perdy  grasped  a  bunch  of  Niccolo 's  birds,  but  at  first 
Joanna  was  afraid  to  touch  the  little  creatures.  She  could 

/ 

not  believe  that  they  were  not  maimed.  But  Francesco 
showed  her  smilingly  how  each  one  had  the  tips  of  its  wings 
twisted  together,  and  then  tied  with  thread,  so  that  several 
dozen  could  be  strung  conveniently  on  a  single  string.  All 
the  Signorina  had  to  do,  was  to  cut  the  threads,  and  straighten 
the  feathers  afterwards.  But  she  must  hold  the  bird's  body 
firmly  all  the  while,  or  in  struggling  it  might  break  a  wing  or 
a  leg  before  it  was  ready  to  fly  off.  He  gave  her  a  pen-knife 
to  work  with.  Aunt  Perdy  was  snipping  away  recklessly 
it  seemed  to  Joanna  with  her  huge  shears. 

As  she  took  the  first  little,  palpitating  body  in  her  left  hand, 
Joanna's  heart  throbbed  with  an  almost  painful  elation. 

She  remembered  Cousin  Gerald  and  the  chaffinches  at  Dun- 


OPENTHEDOOR  133 

tarvie,  and  how  she  had  quivered  when  he  had  pointed 
his  knife  at  her  breast.  Birds  had  always  played  a  memorable 
part  in  her  dreams,  persisting  there  like  a  symbol.  Sometimes 
she  had  dreamed  she  was  holding  her  hands  above  her  head, 
while  hundreds  of  swallows  passed  through  her  widely  spread 
fingers,  brushing  her  skin  deliciously  with  their  feathers.  At 
other  times  she  was  gazing  up  into  a  sky  thick-strewn  with 
stars,  with  stars  like  seeds  as  they  fly  from  the  hand  of  the 
sower;  when  to  her  amazement  and  her  great  rapture,  she 
perceived  that  they  were  not  stars,  but  swallows — millions 
and  millions  of  swallows,  wheeling,  and  forming  into  inumer- 
able  companies  for  their  autumnal  flight.  And  the  moon  had 
turned  their  breasts  into  silver,  and  their  wings  into  the  glitter 
of  diamonds. 

These  birds  in  her  fingers  now,  were  mostly  a  kind  of  lake 
swallow — black  and  white,  fashioned  for  swiftness  and  a  swoop- 
ing flight.  It  seemed  a  wonder  how  they  had  ever  been 
snared.  They  had  vicious,  yellow  beaks  with  which  they 
jabbed  unceasingly  at  Joanna's  flesh;  apd  their  bright  eyes, 
though  really  quite  expressionless,  seemed  wide  with  terror. 

But  the  consummate  moment  was  when  one  could  raise 
one's  hand  and  watch  the  free  bird  fly.  For  an  instant  the 
swallow's  cold,  bewildered  claws  clung  to  the  palm,  scratching 
deep  into  the  flesh.  Then  it  was  gone  over  the  lake.  Then 
it  was  no  more  than  a  swooping  black  speck  among  the  others 
yonder. 

As  each  took  flight,  Joanna's  heart  went  with  it.  Had  not 
she  too  been  snared?  Snared  indeed  by  her  own  desire; 
but  still  more,  by  her  own  desire  set  free.  And  each  bird 
as  it  went  from  her,  was  as  a  thank-offering  for  freedom. 

One  bird  she  kept  to  the  last.  It  was  different  from  the 
others.  Much  larger.  A  heavy  breasted  grey  bird,  rather 
like  a  sea-gull,  but  with  a  finer  beak,  dead  straight,  and 
pointed  as  a  rapier.  It  had  lain  in  her  hands,  more  passive 
than  the  swallows,  as  if  dazed.  And  before  she  let  it  fly, 
she  kissed  it  deep  among  its  breast  feathers.  Might  it  perhaps 
be  her  messenger,  and  fly  from  her  to  Mario? 

Anyhow  her  kiss  was  an  unspoken  message,  breathing  re- 
morse, asking  forgiveness,  proclaiming  triumph. 


134  OPEN    THE   DOOR 


"  No  baby  coming?  "  asked  Aunt  Perdy,  her  eyes  running 
over  her  niece's  figure  as  they  took  off  their  coats  indoors. 

Joanna   shook  her  head. 

"  Ah  well,  perhaps  it  is  better  so;  though  this  visit  to 
Auntie  in  her  lonely  nest  would  have  been  something  to  tell  a 
child  in  the  years  to  come,  wouldn't  it?  Your  mother  will 
be  disappointed  I  dare  say.  Juley  was  always  mad  about 
babies.  But  you  will  marry  again  Joanna^  and  give  her 
grand-children,  I  can  see  that.  Trust  Aunt  Perdy 's  eyes. 
Now  come  up  the  ladder,  and  you  can  take  off  your  hat  in 
the  bedroom.  Let  me  go  first  to  show  you.  Bring  your  coat 
with  you,  and  anything  else.  I  leave  nothing  about  down 
stairs.  Then  we  can  talk  till  Aurora  has  the  supper  ready. 
Aurora!  "  she  called  loudly.  "Aurora!  Aurora!  Vieni!  " 

Running  feet  sounded  from  the  garden,  and  a  big,  handsome 
contadina  of  about  eighteen,  dashed  into  the  cottage,  smiling 
all  over  her  face. 

Aunt  Perdy,  as  she  had  done  with  Tommaso,  presented  her 
niece  grandiloquently  for  the  servant's  ready  admiration. 
Then,  instead  of  going  upstairs,  she  went  out  to  superintend 
the  picking  of  the  vegetables,  and  Joanna  heard  her  giving  her 
orders  for  supper  in  a  torrent  of  Italian. 

They  had  reached  Aunt  Perdy's  remote  dwelling  after  a  hot 
forty  minutes'  climb,  by  a  footpath  so  narrow  that  the  three 
had  to  walk  Indian  file,  Tommaso  leading,  with  Joanna's 
luggage  on  his  shoulder.  The  place  was  no  more  than  a  cottage, 
and  that  of  the  humblest  kind.  But  it  had  been  built  on  a 
shelf  of  the  hill;  and  standing  at  the  door  with  Aunt  Perdy's 
carefully  tended  vegetable  patches  on  either  hand,  one  grandly 
overlooked  the  whole  province.  Below  lay  the  great  plain 
like  a  cloak  of  many  colors  flung  there  outspread  from  the 
mountains  to  the  sea.  On  the  right  the  Apennines  were  its 
collar,  sweeping  in  a  rich  curve  upwards  to  the  jewels  and 
point-lace  of  the  Carraras.  On  the  left  its  embroidered  fringes 
were  layed  by  the  Mediterranean  from  Bocca  d'Arno  all  the 
way  round  the  deeply  indented  coast-line  to  the  long  foreland 
of  Spezia. 

The  cottage  consisted  of  two  rooms — an  upper  and  a  lower 
— separated  by  a  flooring  of  pine  which  was  unplastered  below, 
and  so  roughly  joined  that  there  were  gaps  large  enough 


OPENTHEDOOR  135 

to  slip  a  finger  through.  The  lower  room  was  paved  with 
square  red  tiles,  and  barely  furnished  with  a  deal  table,  a 
painted  wooden  book-case,  three  cheap  chairs,  and  a  shabby 
but  fine,  old  armchair  of  woven  cane — the  only  one  with 
cushions.  Some  white  enamel  cups  and  saucers  mixed  with 
common  stone  ware  stood  along  the  shelves  of  a  fixed  dresser 
on  one  wall;  and  the  whole  of  another  wall  was  filled  by  the 
fireplace,  which  gave  dignity  to  everything  with  its  huge 
sloping  hood  of  stone. 

Joanna,  glancing  at  the  book-case  when  she  was  for  a  moment 
alone,  saw  Burns'  Poems,  The  Pilgrim's  Progress,  Looking 
Backward,  A  Romance  of  Two  Worlds,  and  The  Schonberg 
Cotta  Family.  There  were  also  several  works  by  Pulsford, 
Harris,  and  Laurence  Oliphant,  some  more  novels  by  Miss 
Corelli,  and  some  by  Ouida.  In  all,  there  were  not  more  than 
two  dozen  books. 

On  the  walls  hung  a  number  of  old-fashioned  daguerreotypes 
as  well  as  one  or  two  photographs  made  vulgar  by  enlargement. 
In  one  of  these  Joanna  recognized  at  once  the  gentle,  fanatic 
countenance  of  her  Erskine  grandfather,  whose  same  adored 
portrait  hung  over  her  mother's  bed  at  home.  And  above 
this  Aunt  Perdy  had  nailed  a  reproduction  of  Holman  Hunt's 
"  Light  of  the  World,"  the  only  colored  picture  in  the  room. 

She  had  pointed  to  this  the  moment  they  entered  the  cottage. 

"  You  see,  I  will  have  no  imaginative  pictures  on  my  walls, 
except  one,"  she  said,  "  and  that  Jesus.  All  the  others  are 
photographs  of  the  men  who  have  made  Aunt  Perdy  what  she 
is.  There  you  see  your  darling  grandpapa,  my  good  angel 
who  comes  often  from  heaven  to  commune  with  me  in  this 
lonely  spot,  and  to  tell  me  what  are  the  words  I  must  say  to 
poor  humanity  as  it  struggles  in  the  mire  of  ignorance.  Over 
there  is  dear  Pulsford.  You  know  his  M  or  gen  Rot  he?  What! 
You  have  never  read  it?  Poor  child,  you  have  not  yet  begun 
to  live.  And  here,  here  is  my  beloved  Laurence  Oliphant — 
my  appointed  soul's  mate,  as  I  have  come  to  believe  during 
this  last  fortnight,  after  much  prayer  and  meditation." 

But  the  photograph  which  most  interested  Joanna,  was  a 
faded  cabinet  one  which  had  been  nailed  up  in  an  inconspicu- 
ous corner  by  the  book-case.  It  was  so  like  Gerald,  that  for 
a  moment  she  took  it  for  his  picture.  But  on  looking  closer, 
she  saw  that  this  young  man  had  little  whiskers  and  an  old- 
fashioned  collar.  Then  she  knew  it  for  a  likeness  of  Gerald's 


136  OPENTHEDOOR 

father,  her  Uncle  Henry,  a  vague  figure  of  whom  her  mother 
seldom  spoke.  He  was  dead,  Joanna  knew;  and  she  was 
dimly  aware  that  for  years  before  his  death,  he  and  Aunt 
Perdy  had  lived  apart. 

As  her  Aunt  returned,  Joanna  instinctively  moved  away 
from  the  photograph. 

"  Yes,  that  is  poor  Henry,"  said  Perdy,  observing  the 
movement.  "  I  keep  his  picture  there  to  remind  myself 
that  I  have  forgiven  him  the  great  wrong  he  did  me  when  he 
put  me  into  what  he  called  a  '  Nursing  Home/  and  kept  me 
locked  up  there  that  he  might  indulge  his  fleshly  lust  with  my 
children's  governess,  whom  he  never  had  the  courage  to 
marry.  No  doubt  you  have  had  a  garbled  story  from  your 
mother?  There  is  not  a  word  of  truth  in  that.  But  basta! 
As  I  have  said,  I  forgave  Henry  long  ago — even  before  God 
punished  him  by  a  lingering  illness  before  calling  him  on 
to  another  phase  in  his  development.  I  would  gladly  have 
nursed  him,  if  he  would  have  allowed  me.  But  he  refused 
my  offer,  and  did  not  even  answer  my  letter  of  tender  forgive- 
ness. In  that  horrible  asylum  all  those  on  whom  I  laid  my 
hands  were  immediately  cured.  Thus  God  causes  the  wrath 
of  men  to  praise  Him,  Joanna." 

During  this  speech,  Aunt  Perdy  had  passed  her  arm  round 
her  niece's  waist,  and  at  some  points  the  girl  could  barely  resist 
her  inclination  to  burst  into  a  fit  of  laughter. 

"  Your  stomach  is  shaking,  child,"  remarked  Aunt  Perdy. 
"You  are  laughing  at  me.  No.  You  needn't  apologize  or 
explain.  I  see  that  in  spite  of  the  sorrow  God  has  sent,  you 
are  still  one  of  the  herd.  I  must  have  patience  with  you. 
Some  day  perhaps  you  will  understand.  Now  follow  me 
upstairs." 

Joanna  climbed  after  her  aunt  up  the  steep  ladder  which 
led  through  a  square  opening  in  the. ceiling  to  the  upper 
part  of  the  house. 

This  was  even  simpler  than  the  living-room,  and  contained 
neither  cupboard  nor  fireplace.  There  were  two  iron  bedsteads 
a  chest  of  drawers,  an  enamel  basin  and  ewer,  and  a  printed 
calico  curtain  in  a  corner  concealing  a  few  clothes.  The  floor 
was  uncarpeted  save  for  a  worn  strip  between  the  beds.  But 
here  also  everything  was  scrupulously  clean. 

Joanna  was  glad  to  relieve  her  increasing  feeling  of  tension 
by  at  once  opening  her  travelling  case,  and  unpacking  the 


OPENTHEDOOR  137 

presents  she  had  brought  from  Glasgow.  There  were  several 
pounds  of  tea,  on  which  Aunt  Perdy  pounced  joyfully,  and 
she  fingered  with  critical  approval  the  roll  of  good  wearing 
stuff  her  sister  had  sent — rough  grey  tweed  with  a  herring-bone 
pattern.  She  was  pleased  too  with  the  half  dozen  pairs  of 
Balbriggan  stockings  and  the  stout  moirette  petticoat.  But 
what  took  her  fancy  most  of  all,  was  a  pair  of  half-worn 
brown  velvet  slippers,  with  cross-straps  and  high  heels,  belong- 
ing to  Joanna.  Before  Joanna  could  beg  her  to  keep  them, 
she  had  put  them  on  instead  of  her  zoccoli,  and  even  over 
the  coarsely  knitted  socks  they  fitted  her.  In  her  delight 
she  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  holding  out  her  full  skirts 
like  a  young  girl  and  looking  down  with  pleasure  at  her  elegant 
feet. 

"I  can  see  you  have  not  the  Erskine  feet,"  she  said,  glancing 
at  Joanna's,  "  though  they  are  well  enough  shaped  and  not 
large.  But  look  at  mine.  Though  I  am  over  fifty,  they 
are  as  they  were  when  I  was  seventeen.  And  see!  " 

Eagerly  unfastening  Joanna's  slippers,  and  standing  on  the 
rough  boards  in  her  scarlet,  stocking  soles,  Aunt  Perdy  sprang 
right  on  to  the  tips  of  her  pretty  toes  like  a  ballerina,  and 
stayed  there  poised  for  perhaps  ten  seconds,  her  arms  out- 
stretched and  her  fine  serious  face  thrown  back  in  triumph. 

It  was  true.  She  had  marvellous  feet,  small,  and  with 
strongly  curved  insteps.  On  coming  into  the  house  she  had 
laid  aside  her  mannish  cap  and  the  dolman,  and  Joanna 
thought  she  looked  stranger  than  ever.  Her  light  brown  hair, 
in  which  there  were  only  a  few  threads  of  gray,  was  cut  in  a 
straight  fringe  starting  far  up  on  the  crown  and  coming  almost 
to  her  eyebrows.  Her  eyes  could  at  any  moment,  and  appar- 
ently at  will,  fill  with  fire;  and  in  spite  of  its  many  fine  wrinkles 
and  the  absence  of  color  from  the  cheeks,  her  face  was  indomit- 
ably youthful.  Both  face  and  neck  were  of  an  even,  yellowish 
tint.  Her  breast  was  full  and  deep.  Only  in  a  careless  sag- 
ging of  the  stomach  and  thickening  of  the  hips  did  she  show 
her  age. 

The  next  moment  she  was  unrolling  and  measuring  Juley's 
tweed  to  make  sure  there  was  enough  for  a  new  winter  dress. 

The  amount  hardly  satisfied  her,  and  she  began  to  examine 
Joanna's  crape-edged  skirt  to  see  if  it  would  do  as  a  pattern. 

"  How  queer  the  fashions  are  now,"  she  exclaimed,  keenly 
interested,  but  with  some  disgust  in  her  voice.  "  Are  they 


i38  OPENTHEDOOR 

really  wearing  such  skirts  in  Florence?  I  think  them  ugly 
and  immodest,  fitting  so  closely  round  the  hips.  You  have  the 
Erskine  figure,  Joanna.  Our  women  always  had  good,  well- 
grown  bodies.  Turn  round,  and  let  me  look  at  you.  Yes, 
you  are  well  set  up,  and  have  a  good  complexion  like  your 
Mother,  though  she  was  never  so  pretty  as  you.  But  I  had 
a  fuller  bosom  at  your  age.  A  woman  should  be  big-breasted, 
the  Italian  men  say.  And  I  think  they  are  right." 

"  Mother  has  sometimes  said  I  am  like  you,"  ventured 
Joanna  who  hardly  knew  what  to  do  with  herself  under  her 
aunt's  scrutiny. 

"  Like  me?  Nonsense,  child!  Your  mouth  a  little  perhaps. 
Let  me  see?  Yes,  possibly  a  very  little.  But  you  have 
not,  and  never  will  have,  my  wonderful  eyes.  Have  you 
ever  seen  eyes  like  mine?  I  have  never  met  anyone  who 
has.  The  young  priest  at  Cammaiuola,  our  nearest  village, 
whom  I  am  helping  and  teaching,  says  my  eyes  seem  always 
to  be  gazing  straight  into  Heaven.  Yours,  Joanna,  when 
they  stop  dreaming,  will  have  the  earthward  gaze.  I  can 
see  and  feel  it.  No,  don't  argue  with  me.  Aunt  Perdy  knows 
these  things.  You  will  love  with  an  earthly  love,  and  you 
will  suffer,  as  all  those  born  in  March  must  suffer,  shedding 
tears  that  are  sweeter  than  the  smiles  of  others.  But  it  is 
not  yet  clear  if  you  will  ever  attain  to  the  Universal,  the  Soul- 
love,  which  is  mine.  Why  is  it  I  can  go  about  alone  here 
without  fear,  at  any  hour  of  the  night  or  day — here  among 
these  mountains  where  there  are  so  many  brutal  men?  It 
is  because  I  have  the  perfect  love  which  casteth  out  fear. 
If  my  bosom  and  my  wonderful  eyes  were  to  fire  a  man's 
passion,  so  that  it  entered  his  heart  to  do  me  a  wrong,  I  should 
take  him  tenderly  in  my  arms  and  give  him  freely  all  the 
love  he  is  capable  of  taking.  (Men  are  thirsting  for  such 
love,  Joanna,  though  they  may  not  be  aware  of  it:  and  few 
women  there  are  who  have  it  to  give.)  Then  he  will  go  on  his 
way  a  happier  man.  And  when  the  fumes  of  wine  or  lust 
have  gone  from  his  brain  he  will  know  that  he  has  been 
embraced  by  one  whose  soul  is  already  in  Heaven  looking  on 
the  brightness  of  the  Lamb,  though  her  ageing  body  still 
walks  the  earth." 

As  she  spoke — almost  chanting  in  her  ecstasy — Aunt  Perdy 's 
face  grew  more  and  more  radiant,  her  eyes  more  madly 
luminous,  till  Joanna  could  not  bear  to  look  at  her. 


OPENTHEDOOR  139 

Gladly  the  girl  would  have  escaped;  and  not  from  her  aunt's 
rapture  alone,  but  from  the  strong  terrifying  response  there 
was  to  that  rapture  in  herself.  She  shrank  from  the  deep 
exposure. 

But  as  she  could  not  escape,  she  held  herself  like  stone, 
sitting  there  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and  staring  at  the  herring- 
bone tweed.  And  the  elder  woman  found  her  stolid. 

Neither  silence  nor  interruption,  however,  could  long  stay 
the  stream  of  Perdy's  speech;  and  it  was  still  flowing  steadily 
when  later  in  the  evening  they  sat  downstairs  eating  their 
supper  of  artichokes  fried  among  eggs  in  a  great  earthenware 
dish.  Ordinary  talk  was  impossible,  and  Joanna  soon  gave 
up  the  attempt.  Perdy,  even  when  she  put  ajquestion,  never 
allowed  any  one  but  herself  to  answer  it.  All  she  wanted  was 
a  listener.  But  so  manifest  was  this  need,  that  Joanna  wond- 
ered how  she  ever  managed  to  pass  a  day  in  solitude. 

During  supper  a  small  lamp  filled  the  room  with  deep  shadow 
rather  than  with  light,  and  in  the  glow  of  the  charcoal  fire 
Aurora,  who  cooked  and  waited  on  them,  looked  like  a 
goddess.  Joanna  could  hardly  take  her  eyes  from  the  servant's 
neck  which  rose,  a  thick  and  golden  column,  from  the  great 
shoulders;  and  when  she  turned  from  the  stove  to  bring  them 
a  dish,  she  walked  royally,  swinging  on  her  hips.  While 
Aunt  Perdy  talked  and  talked,  Joanna  and  Aurora  kept  smiling 
at  one  another  with  the  warm  and  secret  understanding  of 
youth. 

Still  Joanna  listened;  for  when  Perdy  was  not  speaking  of 
herself,  she  spoke  of  the  Erskine  family;  and  on  her  lips  the 
most  trifling  events  assumed  an  epic  quality.  An  old  Dumfries- 
shire nurse  of  her  childhood  moved  like  a  giantess  amid  her 
talk;  and  ancient  Huguenot  lady  known  as  "  Grandy,"  with 
a  title  and  a  wonderful  ebony  wig,  who  had  looked  after 
Perdy  and  her  sisters  for  some  years  after  their  mother's 
death,  stood  out  as  another  large  and  gracious  figure;  a 
dwarf  who  had  run  away  from  a  travelling  circus  at  Peebles 
to  take  refuge  in  the  manse,  and  who  had  become  the  child- 
ren's ill-tempered  but  loving  slave  till  his  death  a  year  later, 
gave  a  note  of  grotesqueness.  But  all  these  dim  figures,  which 
recalled  to  Joanna  a  hundred  half-heard  tales  of  home,  were 
no  more  than  the  background  in  Aunt  Perdy's  narrative  to 
the  stupendous  figure  of  Papa.  Papa  was  all  and  in  all.  And 
constantly  Joanna  found  herself  glancing  up  at  the  wall  from 


i4o  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

which  the  ecstatic  face  of  the  old  minister  looked  down  at 
his  daughter  and  his  grand-daughter. 

It  had  been  a  grief  to  Robert  Erskine  that  no  son  was 
born  to  him;  for  his  son  was  to  have  been  called  .Hildebrand 
after  his  hero,  and  he  was  to  have  been  a  great  man.  But 
with  characteristic  vigor  this  father  of  four  daughters  had 
put  his  dream  behind  him,  and  had  thrown  all  his  zeal  into 
the  education  of  his  girls.  After  four  of  Shakespeare's  heroines 
he  had  named  them — Miranda,  Perdita,  Juliet  and  Hermione — 
though  at  home  they  became  known  as  Annie,  Perdy,  Juley 
and  Minnie.  And  though  Annie  had  died  at  twenty  of  a  fever 
contracted  during  one  of  their  educational  trips  in  the  Cam- 
pagna  and  Juley  at  eighteen  was.  on  the  verge  of  a  mental 
break-down  through  over-study,  his  children's  faces  still  glowed 
when  they  spoke  of  him. 

"  Never  forget,  Joanna,"  said  Perdy,  "  that  Grandpapa 
was  one  of  the  world's  great  men.  Your  mother  must  at 
least  have  told  you  that.  Even  your  Aunt  Minnie,  who  is 
one  of  the  silliest  women  imaginable,  has  done  that  much  for 
her  unfortunate  children.  Papa  was  not  appreciated  by  his 
contemporaries  any  more  than  I  am  by  mine.  But  in  the 
end  greatness  must  be  recognized;  and  my  aim  is  to  leave  in 
my  writings  a  picture  of  Papa  which  shall  be  an  inspiration 
to  future  generations.  I,  in  myself,  am  nothing."  (As  she 
spoke,  Perdy  stretched  out  her  arms  in  a  magnificent  gesture 
of  humility.)  "  I  cannot  of  myself  write  one  word  that  will 
live.  But  as  soon  as  I  have  sat  down  with  an  obedient  heart  at 
that  little  table  by  the  window,  and  have  taken  my  pen  in 
my  hand,  Papa  comes  to  my  elbow.  And  though,  alas,  I 
cannot  see  him,  I  hear  his  voice  as  I  heard  it  in  childhood- 
gentle,  yet  stern — and  he  says  to  me,  '  Perdita,  my  child, 
child  of  my  loins  most  beloved,  write  the  words  I  speak  to 
you  now,  and  write  no  other  words,  for  all  other  words  are 
of  the  Devil.'  Once  or  twice — nay,  many  times,  for  I  am 
weak  and  sinful  still,  and  in  the  flesh — the  Devil  has  come  to 
tempt  me  upon  my  hill-top;  and  I  have  disobeyed  darling 
Papa's  command.  I  have  written  words  of  my  own,  or  I  have 
made  believe  that  Papa  was  still  at  my  elbow  when  he  was  no 
longer  there  (for  there  are  times  when  God  has  other  work  for 
him  to  do).  But  when  I  do  that,  when  I  write  my  own  poor 
words,  or  the  false  words  the  Devil  whispers,  do  you  know 
what  happens,  Joanna?  "  On  the  very  breath  of  the  question 


OPENTHEDOOR  141 

Aunt  Perdy  broke  off,  turning  to  Aurora.  "  Aurora,  this 
butter  is  rancid  again.  Where  did  you  get  it?  There  is 
no  excuse  at  this  time  of  the  year.  Take  it  away,  and  tell 
Maria  that  the  Scottish  Signora  is  displeased  with  her." 

Having  despatched  Aurora,  Aunt  Perdy  bent  her  gaze  once 
more  on  Joanna,  leaning  forward  with  blazing  eyes. 

"  Where  was  I  Joanna?  Ah,  yes.  When  I  disobey  sweet 
Papa,  this  is  what  happens.  I  go  to  bed  and  to  sleep.  And 
in  my  sleep  a  hand  is  laid  on  my  shoulder,  and  a  voice  says, 
'  Blot  the  wicked  words  of  self!  '  And  still  in  my  sleep  I 
get  up,  and  after  climbing  down  the  ladder  I  remember  no 
more.  But  when  I  come  down  in  the  morning  as  usual,  I 
find  that  all  the  words  that  were  words  of  self  have  been  blotted 
by  my  own  hand." 

When  she  had  listened  to  the  sound  of  her  aunt's  voice  for 
more  than  two  hours,  Joanna  was  near  the  end  of  her  strength. 
Supper  was  long  over,  Aurora  had  bidden  them  good  night 
and  gone  home,  the  charcoal  no  longer  glowed  in  the  wells  of 
the  stove,  the  lamp  flickered  from  lack  of  oil.  Wearied  out 
with  the  last  weeks  of  grief  and  sleeplessness,  with  the  excite- 
ments of  the  day,  with  the  toiling  walk  up-hill,  with  the  strange- 
ness of  everything,  Joanna's  head  fell  upon  her  breast. 

"  Dear  Auntie,"  she  murmured,  raising  it  with  an  effort.  "  I 
am  so  terribly,  terribly  tired." 

"  I  can  see  you  are  exhausted,"  replied  Perdy,  "  and  ex- 
haustion is  a  poison.  No  one  ought  ever  to  be  exhausted.  It  is 
stupidity,  nothing  else.  It  comes  from  not  knowing  how  to 
rest.  That  is  what  poor  Henry  never  could  see.  He  was 
always  wanting  to  sleep.  Now  I,  since  I  have  learned  how  to 
rest — how  to  relax  every  nerve  and  muscle  perfectly,  as  I 
shall  teach  you  presently — need  hardly  any  sleep.  The  great 
thing  is  to  think  of  your  body  as  a  string  of  beads:  then  you 
can  give  it  the  rest  and  refreshment  it  requires  without  sleep- 
ing for  seven  or  eight  hours  like  a  hog." 

Joanna  made  a  final  effort  to  listen.  But  after  some  time 
she  only  understood  dimly  that  something  was  being  read  to 
her.  Aunt  Perdy's  voice  was  like  a  river  flowing  through  the 
room,  flowing  and  flowing,  and  filling  the  room  with  waves 
of  sound.  And  the  sound  came  and  went  like  the  noise 
of  a  weir  in  the  breeze.  At  one  moment  it  seemed  to  Joanna 
that  she  was  listening  to  her  mother.  Yes,  that  was  her 
mother  talking  of  "poor,  poor  human  nature!  "  then  it  was 


i42  OPENTHEDOOR 

surely  Georgie's  voice,  assertive,  full  of  challenging  assurance. 
Now  her  grandfather,  whose  voice  in  the  flesh  she  had 
never  heard,  was  addressing  her  from  his  place  on  the  dark 
wall.  Then  again  the  tones  seemed  to  be  the  echo  of  her  own 
secret  heart.  It  was  the  voice,  not  of  a  person  but  of  a 
family. 

But  at  length  only  phrases  came  to  her,  drifting  like  islands 
on  a  tide  of  sound — "  The  Father-Motherhood  of  God  " — 
"  The  Central  Sphere  "— "  The  Divinity  of  Sex  "— "  The  Man- 
Woman  Creator."  Then  single  words  began  to  spin  like  motes 
in  the  beams  of  the  guttering  candle — "  Duality  " — "  Soul  " 
— "  Man  "— "  Dove  "— "  Love  "— "  Love  "— "  Love."  Then 
gradually  she  sank  beyond  the  reach  of  words.  And  so  she 
stayed,  till  drawn  up  by  Aunt  Perdy's  ice-cold  hands  upon 
her  wrists  she  knew  she  was  being  told  with  contemptuous 
kindness  that  it  was  time  for  bed. 

END  OF  BOOK  I. 


BOOK  II 

'.   .   .  Open  a  door  of  utterance." — Col.  iv.  3. 
CHAPTER  I 


'""•  VO  please  me,  to  please  your  mother,  Joanna — and  it 

A  is  not  very  often  nowadays  that  I  ask  either  you  or 
Linnet  to  do  anything  to  please  me." 

It  was  Juley  that  spoke. 

Joanna,  tormented  by  the  vexation  and  pertinacity  in  her 
mother's  voice,  looked  up  from  her  drawing-board  and  across 
the  dark  parlor.  She  was  sitting  close  up  to  the  window 
eagerly  using  the  last  of  the  daylight  for  her  work;  but  Juley 
stood  uncertainly  by  the  door,  grasping  the  knob  with  one 
hand,  while  with  the  other  she  contrived  awkwardly,  to  hold 
a  small  tray  loaded  with  tea  things. 

To  the  daughter  by  the  window  the  mother's  face  in  the 
interior  was  only  a  pale  blur;  but  she  knew  its  expression 
as  surely  as  though  she  could  see  the  distressed  features. 
And  her  blood  rose  in  irritated  protest. 

She  was  working.  She  was  trying  to  finish  a  lunette-shaped 
design  for  to-morrow's  class  at  the  School  of  Art.  Why 
couldn't  her  mother  let  her  alone?  It  was  all  very  well  coup- 
ling her  name  thus  with  Linnet's.  But  in  practice  Linnet  was 
left  unmolested,  and  went  his  queer,  separate  way  alone. 
And  it  had  been  the  same  with  Sholto  till  he  had  left  home 
a  year  ago.  It  seemed  as  if  the  boys  were  exempt  from  their 
mother's  spiritual  passion.  She  even  did  her  best  to  forward 
them  in  the  world,  scraping  together  the  money  for  Sholto  to 
start  fair  in  the  colonies  when  he  should  be  ready  to  go,  and 
keeping  unpunctual  Linnet  up  to  the  mark  in  his  attend- 
ance at  Mr.  Boyd's  law  office,  where  he  was  now  apprenticed. 

But  when  she  considered  the  unspiritual  ambitions  of  her 
daughters  she  had  never  ceased  to  mourn,  and  as  Georgie 

143 


144  OPEN   THE    DOOR 

was  away,  it  was  Joanna  who  chiefly  suffered  the  strain  of 
being  yearned  over. 

"I  say  it  again,  Joanna,  my  child,"  continued  Juley;  and 
though  she  tried  to  put  sternness  into  her  tones  they  remained 
simply  vexed:  "  To  please  Mrs.  Lovatt,  or  Mr.  Nilsson,  or 
Phemie  Pringle,  or  any  of  the  new  friends  you  have  made 
since  you  came  home,  there  is  no  trouble  you  will  not  take, 
and  take  gladly.  But  if  poor  Mother  asks  you  to  do  something 
for  her  sake,  it  always  goes  against  the  grain.  How  is  it? 
You  get  lots  of  flattery,  Joanna,  outside  your  home,  but  I 
must  speak  the  truth  to  you;  and  this  that  I  have  said, 
however  it  may  grieve  us  both,  is  the  truth.  Think  how  little 
it  is  I  am  asking  of  you — simply  to  give  one  short  hour  of 
next  Friday  to  read  and  pray  quietly  with  a  few  of  God's  dear, 
good  workers!  And  remember,  my  daughter,  you  will  not 
have  mother  with  you  always.  She  is  growing  older,  and  her 
constant  prayer  is  that  she  may  not  be  spared  to  old  age,  to 
be  a  burden  to  herself  and  others." 

Joanna  sprang  to  her  feet.  She  was  seething  with  a  help- 
less sense  of  injustice.  It  was  more  than  three  years  now  since 
she  had  returned  from  Italy,  a  widow,  to  her  mother's  house, 
and  scenes  of  this  kind  were  familiar  enough.  But  all  of  a 
sudden  at  this  moment  she  found  the  situation  intolerable. 
It  was  intolerable  that  her  mother  should  stand  there  plead- 
ing with  her,  holding  the  tray  so  ungracefully,  looking  in  her 
shabby  dress  more  like  a  servant  than  the  mistress  of  the 
house.  In  a  confused  fury,  but  controlling  her  movements, 
she  crossed  the  room  and  took  the  tray  roughly  from  Juley's 
hands. 

"  I'm  sorry,  Mother,"  she  said.  "  If  you  want  it  so  much, 
I'll  go  to  the  meeting."  But  she  was  incapable  of  any  accent 
of  relenting  tenderness. 

"  Thank  you,  Jo!  "  The  mother  smiled  now  in  timid 
triumph.  "  You  really  will  come?  You  promise  Mother  not 
to  let  anything  prevent  you?  " 

"  Haven't  I  said  I'll  come?  "  The  girl's  exasperation 
brought  violent  shoots  of  pain  to  the  back  of  her  eyeballs. 
"  Surely,"  she  thought,  "Mother  might  let  it  alone,  now  she 
has  got  her  way!  "  And  before  taking  the  tray  to  the  pantry, 
she  added,  "  But  remember  it  is  only  to  please  you,  not  to 
please  Miss  Gedge." 

Juley  sighed  deeply,  as  she  went  to  light  the  gas  and  draw 


OPENTHEDOOR  H5 

down  the  parlor  blinds.  But  she  looked  happier.  For  after 
all,  Joanna  had  promised  to  come  on  Wednesday  night; 
and  Joanna  was  not  to  know  that  the  meeting  in  the  tiny 
vestry  of  St.  Saviour's  (the  Low  and  very  evangelical  English 
Church  to  which  Juley  now  went)  had  been  specially  arranged 
for  her  spiritual  benefit  by  dear  Eva  Gedge.  If  Joanna  had 
known,  she  would  have  been  angry,  and  nothing  would  have 
made  her  yield.  Was  it  perhaps  a  little  unfair?  As  the 
mother  swept  the  table  carefully  clear  of  crumbs,  and  strewed 
them  outside  on  the  window-sill  for  sparrows  an  expression  of 
shame  did  strive  for  a  moment  with  the  satisfied  craft  in  her 
face.  But  it  was  only  for  a  moment.  The  deceit,  she  reminded 
herself,  if  deceit  there  were,  was  for  her  precious  child's  eter- 
nal welfare.  Besides,  this  little  gathering  of  one  or  two  to- 
gether, with  Joanna  in  their  midst,  was  dear  Eva's  idea.  And 
it  was  dear  Eva's  calling  to  deal  with  young  people.  Why 
else  was  she  at  the  head  of  Elmbank  Training  College  for 
deaconesses? 

Joanna,  in  the  pantry,  rolled  back  her  sleeves,  turned  on 
the  hot  water,  and  set  herself  the  unnecessary  task  of  washing 
up.  The  dishes  might  quite  as  well  have  been  left  for  the 
housemaid  whose  day  out  it  was.  But  if  Juley  saw  them  she 
was  sure  to  slink  in  later  and  do  them  herself.  It  was  a 
provoking  piece  of  knowledge,  and  the  daughter,  as  she  rinsed 
the  cups  and  saucers,  stared  tensly  out  between  the  bars  of 
the  pantry  window  at  the  familiar,  darkening  slope  of  the 
back  green.  There  at  the  top  was  the  wall  along  which  she 
had  so  often  raced ;  and  in  the  angle  of  the  wall  was  a  disused 
ash-pit,  which  at  eight  years  old  it  had  been  her  dream  to 
turn  into  a  little  house  for  herself  and  Cousin  Gerald.  True 
she  had  taken  no  practical  steps  towards  making  it  habitable, 
but  the  picture  had  so  persisted  in  her  mind,  that  for  many 
months  she  had  not  been  able  to  pass  a  piece  of  coal  in  the 
street,  or  a  stray  potato  without  picking  it  up.  At  once  she 
had  seen  herself  in  her  tiny  house,  bending  over  the  fire,  and 
cooking  the  loved  one's  supper,  while  he  praised  her  for  her 
thrift. 

And  there  in  another  corner  of  the  wall  was  the  carpentry 
shed,  which  looked  sad  since  Sholto's  departure  to  a  farm  in 
the  Lothians  where  he  was  learning  stock-breeding.  Joanna 
wished  that  Sholto  could  have  stayed  at  home  instead  of 
Linnet.  She  and  Linnet  depressed  each  other;  and  the  sis- 


146  OPENTHEDOOR 

ter  felt  a  kind  of  horror  at  seeing  her  own  faults  so  clearly 
emphasized  in  her  brother.  She  was  ignorant  of  the  real  cur- 
rent of  his  life,  and,  in  all  but  superficial  ways  the  two  had 
come  to  avoid  each  other,  seeking  help  outside  in  different 
directions. 

Suddenly  the  tears  started  to  Joanna's  eyes,  and  her  high- 
strung  fury  changed  to  simple  dreariness.  Through  these 
childish  memories  called  forth  by  the  sight  of  the  black-green, 
and  these  thoughts  of  the  nearer  past,  she  had  completed  a 
circle  of  emotion.  Once  more  she  was  confronted  by  her  imme- 
diate trouble,  the  trouble  concerning  her  mother.  And  for  a 
moment  she  tasted  despair. 

Almost  three  years,  now,  she  had  been  at  home;  and  it 
had  come  to  this.  She  had  got  no  further  than  this  in  ful- 
filling her  dream  of  daughterhood  by  the  fish-ponds  of  Val- 
lombrosa.  In  practice  she  could  not  be  the  daughter  of  these 
dreams.  Still  less  could  she  be  the  daughter  her  mother  so 
passionately  wanted.  Why  was  it?  Many  times  she  had  asked 
herself  that  question,  and  now  she  stumbled  against  it  again. 
She  loved  her  mother:  her  mother  loved  her.  The  dream  at 
Vallombrosa  had  at  least  had  that  much  of  truth.  And  all 
the  time  in  Florence  she  had  known  herself  spiritually  involved 
with  her  mother  in  some  inexplicable  way.  Then  why,  when 
they  were  under  the  same  roof,  was  there  this  unending  con- 
flict between  them?  Whose  fault  was  it? 

Chafed  and  puzzled  as  she  was  by  this  questioning,  Joanna 
was  well  accustomed  to  it,  and  had  her  own  way  of  escape, 
which  she  presently  took.  Just  as  before  her  marriage  she 
had  constantly  taken  refuge  in  a  world  of  dreams;  so  now, 
shaken  awake  by  the  vivid,  physical  experience  with  Mario, 
she  fled  outwards  to  embrace  the  newly  discovered  actual. 
WeH  she  knew  her  way  out.  Had  she  not  trodden  it  these 
three  years  a  thousand  times?  So  the  unf alien  tears  soon  dried 
in  her  eyes,  and  before  the  last  cup  was  put  away,  she  was  once 
more  entirely  absorbed  in  thoughts  of  the  lunette  she  had  to 
finish  for  Mr.  Nilsson's  class  next  day.  Mr.  Nilsson,  her 
favorite  master,  what  would  he  say  about  it?  Thank  Heaven 
she  had  her  work. 

With  the  natural  end  of  her  mourning  for  Mario,  Joanna 
had  become  in  a  perfectly  fresh  way  conscious  of  the  outside 
world.  She  had  seemed  to  re-enter  life  like  one  new  born, 
and  now  for  the  first  time  was  experiencing  the  vigor  of  her 


OPENTHEDOOR  147 

youth.  A  shadow  and  a  burden  were  lifted,  a  film  taken  from 
her  eyes.  She  was  able  now  to  interpret  the  sense  of  escape 
that  had  come  to  her  in  the  train  as  she  left  Florence,  and 
she  understood  more  fully  why  her  heart  had  almost  broken 
with  thankfulness  by  the  lake-side  as  the  rondinelli  took 
their  flight  from  her  hand.  She  was  not  merely  a  woman 
reprieved,  but  a  woman  awakened. 

Even  now  she  could  not  at  all  times  identify  herself  with 
this  new  intoxicating,  work-a-day  world,  which  for  so  long 
she  had  disdained  in  favor  of  dreams.  The  other  people  who 
were  in  it,  and  part  of  it,  must  see  through  her,  she  often  fan- 
cied, guessing  her  no  true-born  inhabitant.  But  she  did  not 
want  to  be  an  alien.  She  had  given  herself  readily  to  its 
refreshingly  tangible  complexities,  and  quickly  she  made  a 
place  for  herself  in  it,  a  place  where  her  mother  could  not 
follow  her. 

Acquaintances  she  now  had  in  flocks.  People  of  course  knew 
her  story  and  rejoiced  in  it.  Her  looks  were  in  keeping  with 
romance.  She  was  everywhere  received  with  a  mixture  of 
sympathy  and  envy  which  was  delicately  flattering.  She  talked 
with  shy  eagerness,  listened  reverently,  admired,  and  with 
encouragement,  criticized.  For  her  the  most  ordinary  social 
event  in  this  unknown  world  was  highly  colored.  She  might 
well  have  been  eighteen  instead  of  twenty-four. 

And  alongside  of  this  enlargement  without  making  any 
special  effort,  she  had  surprised  herself  by  acqMiring  the  habit 
of  work.  She  was  making  real  progress,  and  in  a  quiet  way 
had  become  a  figure  at  the  School  of  Art.  The  masters  were 
on  friendly  terms  with  her:  the  students  discussed  her  clothes 
and  her  features.  It  was  astonishing  how  much  livelier  her 
pencil  had  become,  and  she  had  a  passionate  appreciation  of 
drapery.  Her  ambition  was  to  earn  her  own  living,  some 
day  to  go  to  London. 

But  by  Juley  every  step  of  this  social  and  artistic  advance 
was  subtly  opposed.  It  was  a  strange,  unremitting  conflict. 
The  more  the  mother  perceived  the  daughter's  gifts,  the  more 
desperately  she  deplored  any  little  worldly  success  the  girl 
might  have.  There  was  unscrupulous  warfare  between  them. 

And  with  this  result:  That  Joanna  was  spurred  on  her 
way  far  more  steadily  by  the  discouragement  at  home,  than 
by  all  the  easily  elicited  praise  outside.  Both  were  useful; 
but  even  when  it  irked  her  most,  the  true  stimulant  lay  if* 


i48  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

the  handicap  her  mother  was  to  her,  and  obscurely  she  knew 
this. 

Poor  Juley  on  her  side  had  no  such  compensations.  Besides 
she  lacked  the  saving  hardness  of  youth.  She  too  was  sorrow- 
fully puzzled  by  the  turn  things  had  taken.  Life  had  been  so 
very  sweet  to  her  for  a  little  immediately  after  Joanna's 
home-coming.  She  had  rejoiced  in  what  she  described  to  Eva 
Gedge  as  "  the  softening  influence  of  sorrow,"  had  welcomed 
the  passing  simplicity  that  grief  brings.  Bereaved  Joanna 
had  been  very  loving  and  so  gentle  that  to  the  mother  it 
seemed  as  if  "  a  real  change  of  heart "  must  have  taken  place. 
The  two  had  been  more  nearly  united  than  ever  before. 

But  these  first  days — or  were  they  only  hours? — had  passed 
all  to  quickly  for  Juley  into  a  treasured  memory.  And  now 
she  saw  her  dear  child,  dearer  now  than  ever,  drifting  farther 
from  her  and  from  grace;  becoming,  as  the  years  passed, 
more  and  more  worldly  and  pleasure-loving. 

If  Juley  faltered  at  times  in  this  view,  letting  her  natural 
maternal  pride  have  the  upper  hand,  or  excusing  her  daugh- 
ter's youth,  there  was  Eva  Gedge,  and  Eva  knew  how  to 
apply  the  spur.  Such  an  experience  as  Joanna  had  been 
through  said  Eva,  must  lead  either  to  heart-whole  dedication 
or  to  a  more  callous  resistance.  And  to  know  in  which 
direction  Joanna  was  moving,  had  not  one  merely  to  look  at 
the  friends  she  chose  for  herself?  This  was  an  accusation 
to  which  Juley  had  no  answer  but  a  sigh. 

Eva's  graceless  part,  indeed,  was  to  foment  whatever  was 
mean  and  sterile,  and  to  drag  down  all  that  was  fine  and  pro- 
ductive, in  a  contest  which,  let  alone,  had  little  of  baseness 
in  it.  Like  Mabel,  she  was  essentially  a  divider.  Barren  of 
life  itself,  her  deepest  passion  was  to  balk  and  defeat  the 
entering  of  others  into  life. 

Not  that  she  was  herself  aware  of  her  role:  nor  that  others, 
seeing  her  warm  show  of  interest  in  the  face  of  Joanna's 
cold  politeness,  would  easily  have  guessed  it.  She  was  always 
the  first  to  smile,  with  Christian  cordiality,  when  Juley  tried 
to  bring  daughter  and  friend  to  a  better  understanding.  And 
though  it  sorely  irked  her,  she  almost  always  refrained  from 
putting  into  words,  her  constant  disparagement  of  Joanna's 
natural  qualities.  Often  she  wore  a  martyred  air.  And  truly 
enough  there  was  martyrdom  to  her  envious  nature  in  Juley's 
mounting  pride  in  the  younger  woman. 


OPENTHEDOOR  149 

As  for  Joanna,  she  had  become  angry  with  a  kind  of  scorn- 
ful jealousy.  She  knew  that  Eva's  influence  was  hateful. 
She  knew  that  her  mother,  in  the  deep,  human  part  of  herself, 
was  glad  that  she,  Joanna,  could  no  more  love  Eva  than  Eva 
could  help  envying  her.  Yet  she  was  helpless.  And  whenever 
she  had  been  the  subject  of  a  prayerful  conference  between 
them,  she  writhed  anew  under  the  reinforcement  of  authority 
in  her  mother's  voice,  and  under  the  malign  gleam  that 
darted  from  the  prominent,  black  eyes  behind  Eva's  glasses. 

So  Joanna  was  steeled  against  them  both.  She  knew  not 
how  often  her  mother,  out  of  tender  consideration  for  her,  did 
violence  to  herself, — keeping  difficult  silences,  restraining  sor- 
rowful exclamations,  suppressing  unkind  criticisms  of  her 
daughter's  new  friends.  Nor  did  she  know  the  depth  of  her 
mother's  loneliness,  which  by  a  moment  of  lavish  affection 
either  she  or  Linnet  could  better  have  assuaged  than  Miss 
Gedge  by  many  hours  of  spiritual  conversation. 

n 

So  far  as  Juley  and  Miss  Gedge  were  concerned,  Joanna 
had  three  friends — Mrs.  Lovatt,  Carl  Nilsson,  and  Phemie 
Pringle;  but  each  of  these  represented  a  growing  host  of 
undesirable  acquaintances. 

Mildred  Lovatt,  upon  Joanna's  return  to  Glasgow,  had 
hastened  to  pay  a  call  of  mingled  condolence  and  curiosity. 
It  was  known  what  part  she  had  played  in  Miss  Bannerman's 
romantic  marriage;  and  the  moment  she  had  reconnoitred  at 
Collessie  Street,  she  was  generously  determined  to  welcome 
Joanna  (but  Joanna  alone)  to  her  special  circle. 

That  it  was  a  special  circle  every  one  admitted.  Indeed 
if  Mildred  did  not  speak  of  it  as  a  salon,  that  was  only  because 
there  were  undoubtedly  people  in  Glasgow  who  might  not  take 
such  a  word  seriously/  As  a  salon  she  certainly  thought  of  it; 
and  even  the  scornful  uninvited  never  denied  that  it  included, 
in  a  fitful  way,  ten  times  the  number  of  celebrities  the  lady 
could  have  achieved  with  thrice  her  income  in  London.  Not 
only  was  she  able  to  tap  the  University  and  the  School  of 
Art,  which  between  them  should  represent  the  intellect  of 
any  city,  but  her  drawing-room  in  Panmure  Crescent  had 
become  a  known  resort  for  such  distinguished  visitors  as  came 
from  London  to  lecture,  act,  paint,  or  make  music  on  the 
banks  of  the  Clyde. 


150  OPEN   THE    DOOR 

And  Joanna  was  young  enough  to  find  it  thrilling  that  she 
should  meet  famous  people  in  the  intimacy  of  a  friend's 
'ira wing-room.  What  matter  if  she  rarely  saw  them  oftener 
ftian  once,  and  then  did  not  get  farther  than  a  few  remarks 
about  the  weather?  But  she  learned  quickly  to  keep  from 
mentioning  her  notabilities  at  home,  except  privately  to  Lin- 
net. One  evening,  at  the  tea-table,  having  overflowed  in 
eager  chatter  about  some  well-known  actor,  her  words  had 
died  under  Juley's  sad  and  steadfast  gaze.  And  the  lips  of 
Eva  Gedge  who  happened  to  be  there,  had  suddenly  gone 
rigid. 

in 

Miss  Gedge  herself,  however,  was  less  unsparing  in  her 
criticism  of  Mrs.  Lovatt,  than  was  Joanna's  second  friend, 
Carl  Nilsson. 

Four  years  earlier,  when  the  middle-aged  Swedish  artist 
had  come,  preceded  by  a  high  reputation,  to  teach  design  at 
the  Glasgow  School,  Mrs.  Lovatt  had  piped  her  sweetest  to 
him.  But  from  the  first  he  had  refused  to  dance.  He  was  a 
misfit  at  her  parties.  Then,  as  the  months  passed,  and  it 
became  clear  that  there  was  to  be  periodic  trouble  between 
the  temperaments  of  Nilsson  and  the  Art  Director,  he  was 
tactfully  excluded  from  the  Panmure  Crescent  salon.  See- 
ing that  the  Director,  Mr.  Valentine  Plummer,  was  the  salon's 
principal  pilaster,  this  could  not  be  wondered  at.  Had 
Nilsson  not  been  too  valuable  to  the  School,  he  would  have 
been  excluded  there  also.  As  it  was,  Mr.  Plummer  could 
only  make  things  uncomfortable  for  him;  and  Nilsson,  know- 
ing his  position  secure,  retaliated  in  full  measure.  Nilsson 
of  course  had  his  own  small  circle  of  friends,  but  outside 
this  he  was  regarded  generally  as  rather  quarrelsome  and 
difficult. 

To  Joanna,  the  little  man  had  been  consistently  friendly, 
and  she  knew  him  of  more  value  than  Mrs.  Lovatt  and  all 
her  kind.  She  had  vaguely  feit  drawn  to  him, — amused  and 
attracted  by  his  irritability, — during  the  term  before  her 
marriage. 

And  now,  with  his  sharp  criticisms  which  she  sensitively 
welcomed,  and  his  adroit  praises  which  never  made  her 
ashamed,  he  had  become  to  her  a  real  helper.  He  gave  her  a 
kind  of  attention  she  had  not  had  before  from  anyone. 


OPEN   THE    DOOR  151 

Also  it  was  at  Nilsson's  studio  that  she  first  met  Phemie 
Pringle. 

He  was  at  work  in  the  School  on  a  fresco  in  which  was  a 
group  of  women,  and  asked  Joanna  to  give  him  sittings  for 
some  details  of  his  heads  and  hands  (she  had  a  "  useful  head," 
he  told  her.)  And  during  these  sittings,  away  from  the  inter- 
ruption of  the  School,  their  friendship  had  prospered.  Carl 
seemed  to  enjoy  talking  to  her  about  quite  as  much  as 
he  enjoyed  listening.  She  was  not  a  bit  in  love  with  him, 
but  it  excited  her  to  hear  from  his  own  lips  how  she  appeared 
to  this  man  for  whom  she  had  the  deepest  respect.  She  felt 
she  could  learn  immensely  from  him,  and  he  gratified  her 
Scottish  passion  for  self-improvement. 

On  one  particular  afternoon  he  had  entertained  her  as 
he  worked  by  tracing  the  whole  history  of  their  acquain- 
tance. 

"  I  had  my  eye  on  you,"  he  said,  winking  at  Joanna  in  the 
odd  way  that  Mildred  Lovatt  declared  was  so  offensive.  "  Yes, 
since  the  first  week  I  came  to  your  damned  School  of  Plumbers. 
'  She  is  nice — worth  while ' — I  said  to  myself,  '  but  all  shut 
away;  and  so  heavy  and  dull' — what  you  call  it? — 'lady- 
like— and  0!  My  Lord  God,  so  sentimental!  No  aplomb,  no 
dash,  no  poise, — a  formless  lump  of  femaleness, — impossible! 
In  that  female  amoeba  there  might  possibly  be  a  potential 
woman;  again  possibly  not.'  Your  Britain  is  full  of  the 
not  possibles.  '  She  had  better  get  a  lover,  quick  march,'  I 
thought,  '  or  I  give  nothing  for  her  chances.'  But  I  confess 
to  you  now:  I  did  not  see  how  you  were  to  get  the  lover. 
I  watched  you.  You  kept  them  a  hundred  miles  away — all 
these  young  Glasgow  students  who  were  ready  to  flirt  with 
you.  Then  hey  presto!  I  hear  one  day  you  are  married! 
But  I  was  pleased!  And  to  a  foreigner,  too!  Better  and 
better!  And  off  to  Italy  in  such  a  hurry!  That's  the  style! 
Yes,  I  rubbed  my  hands  when  I  heard.  '  She  is  saved!  ' 
I  said." 

"  And  am  I  saved?  "  asked  Joanna,  with  her  broad,  half- 
malicious  smile.  She  might  have  been  listening  to  a  story 
about  some  one  else,  except  that  her  heart  felt  like  a  fruit 
ripening  on  a  south  wall  when  the  sun  is  strong. 

"  Not  quite,  perhaps.  But  one  feels  a  beginning  has  been 
made.  And  now,  Madame  Joanna,  if  you  would  turn  the 
head  just  a  little — Na!  Too  much!  I  said  a  little — to  the 


152  OPEN  .THE    DOOR 

left?  So,  is  good.  For  one  moment,  till  the  kettle  shall 
boil  for  our  tea." 

She  sat  quite  still  for  him,  keeping  her  head  in  the  position 
he  wanted,  and  sunning  herself  in  his  talk.  There  was  some- 
thing so  genuine  in  the  man  that  his  interest  was  very 
sweet.  It  was  good  that  he  should  think  her  worth  while. 

But  Joanna's  too  self-satisfied  reverie  was  interrupted  by 
the  noise  of  quick  steps  in  the  passage  which  led  from  the 
street  to  the  studio.  Both  quick,  they  were,  and  heavy- 
sounding  like  the  steps  of  a  child.  And  next  moment  the 
flap  of  the  letter-box  was  vigorously  rattled,  and  a  high,  glad- 
some voice  called  "  Coo-ee!  "  through  the  slit. 

Nilsson  threw  aside  his  pencil,  and  a  smile  of  extraordinary 
pleasure  spread  over  his  ruddy  face.  He  was  a  short  man, 
beginning  to  get  stout,  and  though  the  hair  on  his  head  was 
all  gone  gray,  his  beard  and  mustache  still  held  the  color 
of  bright  rust.  To  Joanna  at  this  moment  he  looked  sud- 
denly boyish. 

"  Now  you  shall  meet  my  Phemie!  "  he  exclaimed  with 
delight.  "  She  is  the  pearl  of  Glasgow.  How  glad  I  am  that 
you  should  meet  her!  " 

As  he  skipped  across  to  the  door,  Joanna's  heart  contracted 
in  a  spasm  of  mortification.  What  a  fool  she  had  been  to 
imagine  Nilsson  especially  interested  in  herself! 

But  with  her  first  glance  at  the  newcomer — a  glance  of 
keenest  curiosity — some  of  her  hastily  discarded  complacence 
was  re-installed.  How  could  Nilsson  be  so  delighted  with  this 
silly,  common,  little  over-dressed  person  who  came  marching 
blithely  into  the  room?  Why,  she  spoke  with  a  villainous 
South  Side  accent,  and  had  a  runaway  chin! 

"  Miss  Euphemia  Pringle — Signora  Rasponi !  "  sang,  out 
Nilsson.  And  as  he  took  the  kettle  off  the  gas  ring  for  tea, 
he  kept  a  sidelong  eye  on  the  meeting  between  the  two  young 
women. 

When  she  had  put  her  own  firm,  square  little  hand  into 
Joanna's,  Phemie  tilted  back  her  face,  and  looked  with  eyes 
that  brimmed  with  laughter  from  Joanna  to  her  host. 

"  You  never  told  me  you  were  having  a  lady  friend  to  tea!  " 
she  rallied  him.  "  It's  a  real  shock  to  find  I'm  not  the  One 
and  Only!  " 

Though  Joanna  at  this  thought  her  more  than  ever  common, 
she  could  not  help  watching  Nilsson's  visitor  with  that  fas- 


OPENTHEDOOR  153 

cinated  envy  we  feel  when  suddenly  confronted  with  an  em- 
bodiment of  all  the  qualities  in  which  we  ourselves  are  lacking. 

Phemie  laid  down  a  silk-fringed  hand-bag  decorated  with 
beads,  settled  herself  in  a  chair  that  was  rather  too  high  for 
her  short  legs,  and  started  fanning  her  bright  cheeks  with  a 
sheet  of  drawing-paper.  Her  smallest  movement  was  full  of 
festivity. 

"  Yon's  an  awful-like  stair  of  yours  for  a  poor  thing  like 
me  with  a  weak  heart!  "  She  spoke  to  Nilsson,  but  her  smile 
was  for  Joanna.  She  sought  the  other  girl's  sympathy,  not 
for  her  inane  remark,  but  for  all  the  gaiety  there  was  in 
life;  so  that  Joanna  had  to  smile  back  in  admission. 

And  although  during  tea  Phemie  said  nothing  more  am- 
bitious than  this,  yet  Joanna  quite  lost  the  first  impression  of 
silliness.  Phemie's  eyes  were  too  clear  of  self-absorption  for 
silliness,  and  her  silences  were  too  intent.  When  anyone 
else  spoke  she  was  poised  in  almost  embarrassing  attention. 

Nilsson  asked  her  if  she  would  sing  for  them. 

"  I  want  you  to  try  my  new  Steinway,"  he  said.  And  he 
told  how  he  had  bought  the  piano  at  an  auction  sale  in  Ren- 
field  Street  for  five  pounds. 

"  Is  that  a  fact?  "  exclaimed  Phemie,  with  a  colloquial  ex- 
aggeration that  showed  how  impressed  she  was.  "  Yon  was 
a  fair  bargain!  " 

She  had  risen  quite  readily  on  being  asked  to  sing,  and  she 
took  off  her  hat  as  she  spoke,  stabbing  the  pins  into  it  care- 
lessly and  throwing  it  on  a  chair  before  she  crossed  to  the  piano. 

It  stood  in  the  far  corner  of  the  studio — an  out-of-date 
table-grand,  really  cumbersome,  with  its  thick  body  and  carved, 
straddling  legs ;  and  seated  before  it,  Phemie  looked  very  little 
and  dainty.  Now  that  her  over-trimmed  hat  was  off,  she 
showed  a  delicate  head  with  hair  parted  smoothly  and  coiled 
behind.  The  light  which  came  through  a  yellow  blind  beyond 
the  piano,  seemed  to  take  pleasure  in  enveloping  her. 

She  struck  some  chords,  gently  giving  the  worn  instru- 
ment its  chance,  her  listening  face  turning  the  while  sideways 
towards  the  window.  It  was  a  beautiful  movement  of  her 
long  neck  and  sloping  shoulders,  a  quite  unconscious  disen- 
gaging of  herself  from  the  others,  so  that  she  became  aloof 
in  her  circle  of  yellow  light — she  and  the  huge,  old,  black 
piano. 

Then  her  breast  rose,  her  throat  swelled  like  a  bird's,  and 


154  OPEN    THE    DOOR 

there  came  quite  softly  like  a  fine-drawn  thread  of  gold,  the 
first  high,  sweet  note  of  her  song. 

Nilsson  lay  back  sighing  in  his  chair  his  eyes  closed,  and 
a  look  of  utter  contentment  on  his  face.  But  Joanna  leaned 
forward,  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  her  eyes  on  the  singer, 
thirsty  for  each  lovely,  careful  note. 

This  girl,  whom  half  an  hour  earlier  she  had  summed  up  as 
common  and  silly,  was  an  artist,  no  less!  What  a  mistake  she 
had  made!  Now  she  was  eager  to  accept  her  humiliation. 
And  above  all,  if  only  it  might  be,  she  longed  to  make 
Euphemia  Pringle  her  friend. 

rv 

When  the  girls  left  Nilsson's  together,  they  walked  east- 
wards along  Sauchiehall  Street,  looking  at  the  milliners'  win- 
dows and  talking  mostly  about  what  they  saw  there.  But 
under  all  they  said  there  was  a  happy  excitement.  "  We  are 
going  to  be  friends!  "  each  kept  thinking  with  delight.  Now 
and  again  Joanna  stole  a  look  at  Phemie,  and  with  every  look 
she  found  new  pleasure  in  the  valiant  little  profile.  And  Phemie 
was  impressed  and  carried  away  by  something  in  the  other 
that  she  could  not  define  to  herself.  "  A  real,  wee  madam! " 
was  how  she  would  describe  Joanna  to  her  sisters  when  she 
got  home. 

But  she  had  a  disclosure  to  make  before  she  could  be  sure 
of  this  new  friendship,  and  as  they  turned  the  crowded  cor- 
ner into  Renfield  Street  she  came  out  with  it. 

"  Shall  I  take  you  in  to  the  Business?  "  she  asked,  watch- 
ing the  other's  face  keenly.  "  Mamma  will  likely  be  gone, 
but  Annie  and  Florrie  should  still  be  there;  and  young  Nora 
might  be  in,  meeting  them." 

Joanna  said  she  would  like  to  be  taken,  and  wanted  to 
know  what  kind  of  a  business  it  was. 

"  You're    never    telling    me    you    don't    know    Prtngles? " 

But  Phemie's  astonishment  was  forced,  for  she  was  on  the 
defensive — "  It's  Mamma's  shop,  and  two  of  our  girls  help 
in  it." 

There  was  no  doubt  in  either  of  them  that  it  was  a  dis- 
closure; and  as  they  looked  steadily  into  each  other's  eyes, 
Joanna  was  casting  about  for  the  way  to  put  things  right 
between  them.  She  felt  herself  somehow  to  blame  for  the 
troublesome  shop.  She  knew  it  well,  as  everybody  in  Glas- 


OPEN   THE    DOOR  155 

gow  did: — Pringle's,  the  Ladle's  and  Children's  Outfitter.  But 
never  before  had  she  had  a  friend  with  a  shop  in  the  family. 
She  could  see  Mildred  Lovatt's  smile. 

"  Of  course  I  know  it,"  she  said,  after  a  scarcely  per- 
ceptible pause.  "  I'm  wearing  a  chemise  now  that  I  got  there. 
It's  the  best  I  ever  had!  " 

"  That's  the  worst  of  Mamma's  things,"  rejoined  Phemie. 
"  They  wear  everlastingly.  I  have  one  on  too — for  a  wonder!  " 

They  both  laughed  a  little  tremulously  now  that  their 
anxiety  was  gone.  It  was  all  right.  Things  were  going  to 
be  all  right  between  them. 

VI 

Thus  it  was,  that  Joanna  came  for  the  first  time  upon  the 
reservoir  of  human  life  which  gives  to  Glasgow  its  essential 
character.  And  she  came  upon  its  very  sources  at  Sans 
Souci,  the  villa  on  the  South  side  of  the  River,  where  the 
Pringle  family  vociferously  lived. 

It  is  curious  how  completely  a  household  like  the  Banner- 
man's  may  lead  an  alien  existence  in  a  town.  Juley  only  com- 
ing to  live  in  Glasgow  on  her  marriage,  had  long  kept  the 
feelings  of  an  exile;  and  something  of  this  had  been  communi- 
cated to  her  children.  On  Sholto's  side,  the  family  associa- 
tions had  been  with  the  citizens  of  the  passing  generation, 
and  his  public  ties  had  died  with  him.  Even  in  his  life-time, 
Edinburgh  had  come  to  be  regarded  as  the  true  Bannerman 
headquarters. 

It  followed  that  the  children  had  chosen  their  few  playmates 
most  naturally  from  among  the  exotics.  And  this  was  especi- 
ally true  of  Joanna,  with  the  hysterical  aloofness  of  her  youth. 
She  had  grown  up  wonderfully  ignorant  of  her  native  place. 
Her  West-end  school-fellows,  with  their  clipped  syllables  and 
narrowed  vowel  sounds  (fondly  imitative  of  an  "  English " 
accent),  had  revealed  but  a  fragment  of  its  integral  life,  and 
that,  as  it  were,  under  protest. 

But  in  the  world  of  Sans  Souci,  the  mocking,  hard-working, 
mercurial  people  were  indigenous.  Their  streams  of  being 
flowed  bright  and  uncontaminated  from  Glasgow's  central 
pulse.  And  they  knew  it.  They  were  more  at  home  in 
Paris  than  in  Edinburgh.  Buchanan  Street  existed  for  them 
alone. 

At  first,   thrown   among   so   many   young  and   pleasure- 


i56  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

loving  women,  Joanna  felt  bewildered.  But  soon  she  was 
making  good  all  the  enjoyment  denied  to  her  shadowed  and 
painful  teens. 

At  Sans  Souci  there  was  a  constant  noise  of  talk  and 
laughter.  Married  sons  and  daughters  ran  continually  in 
and  out.  The  unmarried  ones  lived  in  an  atmosphere  of 
sweethearting  which  pervaded  the  rooms  and  the  garden. 
The  family  was  sharply  divided  into  blondes  and  brunettes, 
accounted  for  by  the  Italian  strain.  (For  old  Mr.  Pringle, 
who  wore  a  sombrero  in  the  garden  and  had  flashing  eyes, 
lost  no  time  in  making  it  clear  to  Joanna  that  his  distant 
forebears  had  been  called,  not  Pringle  but  Pellegrini.) 

From  the  crowd  of  them — "  our  Florrie,"  "  our  Tom's 
wife,"  "  our  Polly's  wee  girl,"  "  our  Nora's  '  latest ' '  —there 
principally  emerged  for  Joanna,  Annie,  grave  and  handsome 
with  a  pile  of  honey-colored  hair,  Nora,  black-haired,  skinny, 
and  almost  uncannily  vivacious,  and  pale,  strange-eyed  Jim- 
mie  who  was  generally  understood  to  be  Phemie's  young 
man. 

All  the  doors  of  all  the  rooms  were  left  open,  and  long  conver- 
sations were  carried  on  by  people  in  different  rooms,  on  differ- 
ent floors.  The  single  servant,  which  Mamma  considered 
sufficient  for  the  needs  of  any  family,  never  stayed  long. 
But  her  going  inconvenienced  nobody.  Even  when  she  had 
not  yet  gone,  there  would  always  be  more  people  in  the 
kitchen  than  in  the  drawing-room.  Particularly  when  Mamma 
was  in  the  house  was  it  an  understood  thing  that  no 
one  should  sit  down  for  more  than  a  minute  at  a  time.  To 
be  settled  in  an  arm-chair  reading  was  violently  contrary 
to  Mamma's  fixed  notions  of  young  womanhood.  It  was  not 
thus  that  she  had  built  the  Business  up. 

And  for  Mamma,  the  Business  was  life,  was  romance.  She 
had  built  it  up  herself  out  of  nothing,  her  husband  finally 
taking  his  humble  place  in  it  as  book-keeper  (for  Mrs.  Pringle 
could  not  add  a  column  of  figures) ;  and  her  nine  children  and 
these  children's  friends  were  shadowy  to  her,  except  in  so  far 
as  they  touched  the  well-being  of  the  Business.  When  Joanna 
was  introduced,  Mrs.  Pringle  had  taken  her  hand  in  a  strong 
clasp,  very  like  Phemie's  own.  But  there  had  been  no  scrutiny 
whatever  in  the  innocent  eyes  that  were  set  far  apart  in  the 
broad,  babyish  face:  and  Joanna  had  felt  sure  she  would 
not  be  recognized  on  a  second  meeting.  Mere  human  beings 


OPENTHEDOOR  157 

were  excluded  from  the  absorbing  pattern  of  this  woman's 
existence. 

Assuredly  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  find  anything  in 
greater  contrast  to  the  quiet,  sad-colored  life  at  Collessie 
Street,  with  its  intense  spiritual  currents,  than  this  household 
of  Sans  Souci. 


CHAPTER  II 


" T  'VE  got  Louis  Fender  (you  know  his  work  of  course) 
A  coming  here  unexpectedly  for  the  week-end,  and  as 
there  is  a  students'  dance  at  the  School  to-morrow  night, 
I  thought  we  might  go  on  there  after  dinner  with  our  little 
party.  Will  you  be  one  of  us?  Do.  We  dine  at  a  quarter 
to  eight.  Don't  answer,  but  come." 

On  the  morning  of  the  day  appointed  for  Miss  Gedge's 
meeting,  the  post  brought  Joanna  this  invitation  from  Mrs. 
Lovatt,  and  she  read  it  through  in  a  growing  distraction. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  never  before  wanted  so  much 
to  accept  an  invitation  as  she  did  now;  and  a  malignant 
fate  had  fixed  the  affair  at  St.  Saviour's  for  seven  o'clock 
that  same  night!  She  would  know  better  another  time  than 
to  let  herself  be  nagged  into  giving  her  word. 

But  in  the  same  moment  Joanna  took  her  resolution. 
Come  what  might,  she  would  be  at  Mildred's  at  a  quarter  to 
eight;  and  she  would  be  there  if  possible  without  having 
broken  the  promise  to  her  mother.  How  this  was  to  be  done, 
she  did  not  yet  know.  She  only  knew  that  a  way  must  be 
found. 

True,  this  was  the  first  time  in  her  life  that  she  had  heard 
of  Louis  Fender.  And  under  Nilsson's  influence  she  was  be- 
coming less  impressible  by  Mildred's  celebrities.  True,  also, 
the  little  dancing  she  knew  had  been  picked  up  during  play- 
hours  at  school,  and  she  had  never  been  to  a  dance.  But  at 
this  moment  she  could  imagine  nothing  more  desirable  on 
earth,  than  that  she  should  meet  this  man  with  the  pleasant 
name  at  dinner,  and  go  to  the  dance  afterwards.  She  wanted 
to  dance,  even  should  she  not  have  the  courage  to  accept  a 
partner  for  anything  but  a  reel  or  a  set  of  lancers,  in  either  of 
which  she  felt  secure. 

She  looked  again  at  the  letter. 

"  Also,  as  an  experiment,"  wrote  Mrs.  Lovatt  in  her  slap- 
dash handwriting,  "  I  have  asked  that  young  Mr.  Urqu- 
hart  whom  you  may  remember  in  our  Italian  class.  In  spite 

158 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  159 

of  his  appalling  shyness,  I  gather  he  remembers  you.  I 
discovered  him  to-day  having  tea  at  the  Tullises'.  It  seems 
Professor  T.  thinks  well  of  him  as  a  budding  anthropologist." 

And  there  was  a  postscript,  telling  that  Louis  Pender  was 
in  Glasgow  as  the  possible  painter  of  some  panels  in  the  City 
Chambers,  about  which  there  had  been  some  talk  of  late. 

Yes:  Joanna  was  determined  to  go  that  evening  to  Panmure 
Crescent;  but  how  was  it  to  be  done? 

Quite  apart  from  the  St.  Saviour's  complication,  she  well 
knew  that  the  dinner  could  only  have  been  achieved  by  great 
skill,  and  the  dance  by  deceit  or  open  rebellion.  In  all  these 
things,  her  mother's  will  was  set  hard  against  hers.  And  there 
was  the  particular  promise  besides! 

There  was  no  means  she  did  not  now  consider,  from  flag- 
rant lying  to  wild  revolt;  from  the  plea  of  illness,  to  the 
attempted  cajolery  of  Miss  Gedge  to  alter  the  hour  of  prayer. 
But  one  by  one  each  plan  had  to  be  rejected,  and  again  nothing 
remained  but  the  sheer  determination. 

Then,  sudden  and  simple,  like  the  unexpected  appearance  of 
the  sun  on  a  black  day,  came  the  solution. 

In  a  fever  of  excitement  she  laid  her  plans.  She  was  trium- 
phant, amazed  that  she  had  not  thought  of  this  at  once.  It 
would  involve  no  more  deception  than  either  she  or  Georgie 
had  perforce  practised  a  hundred  times  before  where  their 
mother  was  concerned. 

At  half-past  five,  she  went  to  her  bedroom,  locked  the  door, 
and  dressed  for  the  dance.  Her  dress,  which  she  now  wore 
for  the  first  time,  had  been  made,  amid  the  mingled  jeers  and 
acclamations  of  Sans  Souci  from  a  curious  old  piece  of  grena- 
dine belonging  to  Juley's  girlhood— black,  with  bright  blue 
stripes  and  at  intervals  little  yellow  embroidered  flowers.  It 
had  a  low  bodice,  tiny  sleeves,  and  a  very  full,  short  skirt. 
And  when  the  girl  had  put  on  over  it  her  day  blouse  and  a 
dark  skirt,  covering  all  with  a  coat,  no  one  would  have  guessed 
her  secret.  She  pulled  a  pair  of  black  stockings  over  her 
bright  blue,  silk  ones,  and  she  hid  her  slippers  and  a  black 
lace  fan  in  the  inside  pocket  of  her  coat.  It  was  done! 

When  Juley  came  down  to  the  lobby,  ready  in  time  for 
once,  she  found  her  daughter  waiting  for  her  with  red  cheeks 
and  shining  eyes.  It  gave  her  great  delight  that  Joanna 
took  her  arm  affectionately  in  the  street,  and  her  hopes  for 
the  meeting  ran  high. 


160  OPEN   THE   DOOR 


n 

Not  until  the  proceedings  at  St.  Saviour's  were  in  full  cry, 
did  Joanna  know  herself  to  be  their  quarry. 

Long  ago  in  self-defense  she  had  perfected  her  faculty  for 
not  listening,  and  on  this  occasion  she  had  rendered  herself 
inaccessible  the  more  easily  as  no  answering  speech  was 
required  of  her.  Exulting  in  her  hidden  finery,  and  full  of 
anticipations  for  the  coming  evening,  she  had  been  for  some 
time  wrapped  quite  securely  away. 

Indeed  a  more  observant  person  than  she,  might  well  have 
been  misled  by  the  innocent  beginnings  of  the  meeting.  Not 
more  than  a  dozen  people  were  present,  including  Juley, 
Joanna  and  Miss  Gedge.  The  others  were  Mr.  Bridgewater, 
the  incumbent  Miss  Bostock,  a  deaconess  and  some  of  Miss 
Gedge's  students;  who  wore  their  dark  blue  uniforms. 

After  a  short  request  by  Mr.  Bridgewater,  that  their  coming 
together  here  might  not  fail  in  its  intent,  a  hymn  had  been 
sung.  A  passage  from  the  Bible  followed.  Then  at  a  pre- 
arranged signal,  all  the  women  rose,  turned  themselves  about; 
and  fluttered  to  their  knees.  Whereupon  the  clergyman,  hav- 
ing done  his  part,  tiptoed  out  and  left  them,  softly  closing  the 
vestry  door  behind  him. 

It  was  this  odd  departure  of  Mr.  Bridgewater  that  first 
roused  Joanna  to  what  was  forward;  and  when,  after  a  few 
strained  moments,  Eva  Gedge  led  in  prayer,  she  knew  her- 
self entrapped. 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  suggestions  that  were  now  laid 
before  the  Lord — first  by  Eva;  then,  after  a  pause  of  dread- 
ful discomfort,  by  Miss  Bostock;  then,  at  the  end  of  a  breath- 
less term  of  suspense,  by  one  of  the  younger  women.  These 
last  clearly  suffered  acute  nervousness  at  having  to  address 
God  in  public.  But  this  was  an  art  they  had  come  to  Miss 
Gedge  to  learn  so  not  one  of  them  would  relinquish  such  an 
opportunity  for  practice. 

And  in  scarcely  veiled  language,  every  one  present  was 
praying  for  Joanna. 

Joanna's  first  impulse,  when  she  realized  how  matters  stood, 
was  of  sheer  wrath.  She  wanted  to  leap  up  and  fling  out 
of  the  vestry  full  of  praying  women. 

But  she  did  not  so  act.  She  realized  at  once  that  such 
rudeness,  while  it  would  pain  her  mother,  would  give  the 


OPEN   THE    DOOR  161 

highest  satisfaction  to  Miss  Gedge.  Besides,  what,  after 
all,  did  it  matter?  These  people  could  not  harm  her,  could 
not  prevent  her  from  doing  as  she  wished.  She  turned  her 
head,  furtively  counting  the  bowed  backs.  By  now,  the 
last — the  very  last,  surely — of  the  students  was  praying.  She 
was  a  timid  creature,  and  her  shaking  voice  sounded  sin- 
cere. 

"  We  ask  Thee,"  she  was  saying,  "  that  our  dear  young 
sister,  with  the  gifts  Thou  hast  given  her,  may  not  be  among 
those  that  perish,  but  may  enter  with  all  joy  and  everlasting 
delight  into  fulness  of  life,  both  here  and  hereafter!  " 

At  the  words,  "  fulness  of  life  " — really  so  sweetly  spoken 
by  the  trembling  young  woman, — Joanna  was  swept  by 
a  wholly  unlooked-for  wave  of  emotion.  She  could  do  no 
other  than  make  the  prayer  her  own.  But  in  the  succeeding 
silence  she  grew  cold  again.  The  same  thought  was  in  every- 
one's mind.  Was  not  Juley  going  to  pray? 

In  an  icy  panic,  Joanna  changed  her  own  cry  for  life  into 
the  supplication  that  her  mother  might  keep  silence. 

"  O  God,  don't  let  Mother  pray  out  loud,  for  Jesus'  sake, 
Amen!  "  Again  and  again  she  repeated  the  same  phrase 
with  passionate  fervor;  and  a  huge  load  was  lifted  from  her, 
when  with  a  quiet  rustle  of  skirts  they  all  rose  from  their 
knees. 

The  meeting  was  over. 

As  they  stood  at  first,  silent,  Joanna  felt  embarrassed.  At 
her  mother  whose  face  was  bathed  in  tears,  she  could  not 
look:  at  Miss  Gedge  she  would  not. 

So  she  gazed  steadfastly  at  the  shy  girl  who  had  last  prayed. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said  at  length,  the  first  to  speak.  And 
she  moved  nearer  to  where  the  other  stood.  "  I  liked  your 
prayer,  and  I  hope  it  will  be  answered.  It  was  good  of  you 
to  come." 

The  student  blushed  as  deeply  as  Joanna  was  blushing,  but 
she  shone  as  well,  and  a  cloud  came  upon  Eva  Gedge's  face. 

Joanna  enjoyed  a  moment  of  pure  malice.  She  had  tri- 
umphed. Then  turning  to  her  mother  she  spoke  loudly 
enough  for  Eva  to  overhear. 

"  I  shall  have  to  go  at  once,  Mother,"  she  said.  "  I  pro- 
mised Mrs.  Lovatt  to  call  there  this  evening.  It  may  be 
fairly  late  before  I'm  back.  You  mustn't  wait  up." 

And  she  was  gone  before  a  word  could  be  said  in  reply. 


1 62  OPENTHEDOOR 

It  was  already  twenty  minutes  to  eight,  but  Mildred's 
house  was  not  far  off,  and  Joanna  could  be  fleet. 

in 

Even  to  herself  Joanna  did  not  admit  how  nervous  she 
became  in  the  Lovatt's  house.  But  from  the  moment  the 
front  door  closed  between  her  and  the  street,  there  was  al- 
ways a  tightening  of  all  her  nerves.  As  she  passed  through 
the  square  entrance  hall,  so  unlike  any  other  known  to  her, 
with  its  black-tiled  floor,  bright  blue  carpet,  and  white  walls 
hung  with  black-framed  etchings,  her  very  muscles  would 
stiffen  a  little  in  the  involuntary  effort  which  these  decora- 
tions seemed  to  demand.  In  the  same  way,  the  rooms,  though 
they  were  neither  so  large  as  the  rooms  in  Collessie  Street,  nor 
nearly  so  rich  as  Aunt  Georgina's,  imposed  a  peculiar  restraint. 
The  way  in  which  a  few  flowers  stood  up  from  a  shallow  glass 
dish;  the  black  sofa  bolsters  tasselled  with  gold;  the  signed 
scribbles  in  pencil  (generous  as  to  margin)  by  Sargent  or 
Burne- Jones,  which  leaned  unfixed  on  a  molding  against  the 
drawing-room  wall;  and  here  and  there,  resting  on  the  same 
ledge  for  the  convenience  of  handling,  a  framed  autograph 
letter — these  were  evidences  of  a  world  in  which  Joanna  did 
not  yet  move  easily,  a  world  where  the  small  talk,  like  the 
material  furnishings,  had  its  own  shibboleths  of  seeming  free- 
dom and  simplicity. 

But  on  this  evening  Joanna  had  great  hopes  of  escaping 
the  usual  ordeal.  The  swift  transition  from  St.  Saviour's 
to  the  house  in  Panmure  Crescent,  the  emotional  tension  of 
the  prayer  meeting,  the  bizarre  concealment  of  her  ball-dress, 
acted  upon  her  like  some  stimulating  and  skilfully  mixed 
potion. 

Although  not  late,  she  was  the  last  guest  to  arrive,  and  was 
glad  to  have  the  bedroom  to  herself  so  that  she  could  take  off 
her  outer  clothes  unnoticed.  The  extra  garments  and  the 
race  through  the  streets  had  made  her  hot,  and  it  was  a  de- 
licious refreshment  to  emerge  in  her  thin  evening  gown.  As 
she  shook  out  the  voluminous  skirt  before  Mildred's  cheval 
glass  she  seemed  to  herself  as  light  as  gossamer.  She  pal- 
pitated in  response  to  the  brightness  in  her  own  eyes,  to  the 
wild  color  in  her  cheeks,  to  the  inebriating  savor  of  life  on 
her  palate.  And  on  the  way  down  the  blue-carpeted  stair, 
she  felt  as  if  the  vessel  of  her  being  were  full  to  the  lip  with 


OPENTHEDOOR  163 

incandescent  flame.  From  the  moment  she  entered  the  draw- 
ing-room she  knew  she  need  fear  nothing,  for  this  evening  at 
least. 

To  her  bright,  unseeing  gaze  the  room  seemed  full  of  people 
standing  up.  Actually  there  were  only  six,  counting  herself. 
She  shook  hands  with  the  Lovatts  and  with  Mrs.  Plummer, 
a  woman  distressingly  thin,  with  masses  of  untidy  black  hair 
and  a  green  velvet  dress.  Then  turning  in  obedience  to  a 
sign  from  her  hostess,  she  became  conscious  of  a  strange  man, 
blase  yet  dapper,  with  a  straw-colored  mustache  and  rather 
prominent  hazel  eyes.  He  was  staring  at  her  through  the 
strong  lenses  of  his  glasses  with  the  painter's  intentness.  In- 
deed, but  for  that  look,  which  she  had  sometimes  seen  in 
the  eyes  of  Nilsson,  Joanna  would  not  have  taken  Louis  Pen- 
der  for  an  artist.  Particularly  by  the  side  of  Mr.  Lovatt,  the 
carpet  manufacturer,  with  his  stooping  shoulders,  velvet  jacket 
and  silky  gray  beard,  his  guest  appeared  a  person  entirely 
worldly.  Of  the  three  men  present,  he  was  the  only  one  wear- 
ing a  stiff  shirt,  and  his  dust  colored  hair  was  quite  short 
and  carefully  brushed.  It  looked  incongruous  with  the  as- 
tonishing yellow  mustache. 

Yet  in  spite  of  this  deference  to  convention  there  was  some- 
thing so  resentful  in  the  man's  whole  presence  that  the  friend- 
liness of  his  hand-clasp  came  to  Joanna  as  a  surprise.  She 
looked  inquiringly,  involuntarily,  straight  into  his  eyes,  and 
while  she  saw  how  their  color  was  accentuated  by  fair  lashes, 
she  had  the  curious  sensation  that  her  heart  was  holding  its 
breath.  When  he  heard  Joanna's  foreign  name  Fender's  lids 
lifted  slightly  with  interest. 

So  engrossed  was  she  that  it  was  an  effort  to  attend  to  what 
Mrs.  Lovatt  was  saying.  But  presently  Joanna  understood 
that  she  was  to  accept  Mr.  Urquhart's  shyly  proffered  arm  to 
the  dining-room. 

> 

On  the  staircase  she  was  so  conscious  of  Pender  who  walked 
behind  with  Mrs.  Lovatt,  that  she  did  not  say  a  word  to  her 
companion.  But  on  renewing  the  acquaintance  it  had  sur- 
prised her  to  find  how  well  she  rememberd  him.  This  was 
the  first  time  she  had  set  eyes  on  him  since  the  Italian  class, 
from  which  she  had  not  knowingly  carried  away  any  vivid 
impression  of  him:  yet  now  his  dark,  silent  face,  and  bashful 
body  appeared  almost  intimately  familiar. 


164  OPEN   THE    DOOR 

At  dinner  he  hesitated  several  times  before  achieving  speech, 
and  Joanna,  instead  of  helping  him,  waited  with  indolent 
cruelty.  She  guessed  at  his  shyness,  but  in  her  own  hour 
of  release  showed  no  mercy.  Besides  she  was  watching  Fender 
who  sat  opposite  at  the  further  corner  of  the  table.  There 
was  a  jauntiness  in  his  movements  which  might  have  been 
taken  for  self-assertiveness.  But  somehow,  Joanna  knew  bet- 
ter. Somehow,  with  a  secret  warmth  of  knowledge  she  saw 
him  unsure,  bitter,  on  the  defensive. 

"  I  only  learned  yesterday  from  Mrs.  Lovatt  that  you  were 
back  in  Glasgow." 

Lawrence  had  spoken  at  last,  and  Joanna  was  caught  by 
the  pedantry  of  his  phrasing.  So  shy  he  was,  yet  so  precise! 
And  she  smiled  at  him,  dazzling  him  with  all  the  new  joy  in 
her  heart. 

"  And  I  learn"  she  replied,  "  that  you  are  the  coming 
anthropologist!  "  As  she  spoke,  he  saw  her  gay  smile  change 
into  a  regular  schoolgirl  grin  which  put  everything  else  out 
of  his  head.  Not  till  this  moment  had  he  known  how  keenly 
he  had  looked  forward  to  meeting  her  again.  He  still  re- 
membered the  pain  of  unreasoning  anger  and  emptiness  with 
which  he  had  heard  of  her  marriage  and  departure  to  Italy. 

How  was  it  that  she  had  been  back  for  three  whole  years 
without  his  having  once  seen  her? 

"  Glasgow  is  a  bigger  place  than  one  thinks  after  all,"  was 
what  he  succeeded  presently  in  saying. 

But  Joanna  only  smiled  a  vague  assent,  and  he  saw  that  he 
had  lost  her.  She  was  listening,  not  to  him  but  to  the  talk 
between  Fender  and  Mrs.  Lovatt.  She  had  gathered  that 
Mrs.  Tullis,  the  Professor's  wife  was  calling  next  day  to  meet 
Fender. 

"  As  I  shall  stay  down  here  until  I  know  one  way  or  the 
other,"  Fender  was  saying.  "  I  may  as  well  do  a  portrait  of 
her  if  she'll  sit  to  me.  Yes,  I  was  to  have  painted  her  two 
years  ago,  up  in  town.  But  Tullis  got  his  Glasgow  job  and 
carried  her  off,  so  nothing  came  of  it.  It  wasn't  a  commission 
of  course.  She  was  a  friend  of  my  wife's." 

Then  he  was  married! 

Rousing  herself  Joanna  turned  again  to  Lawrence. 

"  You  are  a  friend  of  the  Tullises?  "  she  asked  him.  But 
Mrs.  Lovatt  cut  gaily  across  his  unready  reply. 

"  Yes,  Mr.   Urquhart,  you  tell  us!     Do  you  think  Mrs. 


OPENTHEDOOR  165 

Tullis  so  pretty?  "  she  demanded  to  his  consternation,  drag- 
ging the  young  man  into  the  open. 

At  Mildred's  question,  Joanna  looked  instinctively  at  Fen- 
der's face;  and  she  saw  embarrassment  like  a  cloud  pass 
over  it,  leaving  it  the  next  moment  devoid  of  expression. 

While  Lawrence  sought  his  answer,  Mrs.  Plummer  spoke 
for  him. 

"  I  think  she  is  really  rather  beautiful!  "  said  she,  with  her 
overweighted  head  on  one  side,  and  as  if  she  gained  a  re- 
flected glory  by  praising  the  good  looks  of  another  woman. 
"  There's  a  something  of  the  woods  about  her,  don't  you 
think,  that's  very  lovely?  Farouche,  I  think  is  the  word." 

"  For  myself,"  Mrs.  Lovatt  retorted,  "  I  should  rather 
have  said  vixenish  than  farouche,  with  that  hair  and  those 
two  little  sharp  white  teeth  in  front  "  Pretty  Mrs.  Fox"  is 
my  name  for  her.  Come  and  meet  her  here  to-morrow,  Joanna, 
and  tell  me  if  you  don't  agree  with  me." 

"  Mildred  always  was  jealous  of  red-headed  women,"  whis- 
pered Mr.  Lovatt  in  a  stage  whisper  aside  to  Joanna.  And  the 
others  laughed  and  fell  apart. 

Joanna,  who  did  not  know  the  professor's  wife  by  sight, 
had  taken  no  part  in  the  discussion.  And  she  had  been  all 
the  time  aware  of  Fender's  so  different  isolation,  which  yet 
seemed  to  bring  him  nearer  to  her.  She  felt  a  hatred  rising 
in  her  against  this  Mrs.  Tullis,  against  Mrs.  Fender,  against 
Mildred,  perhaps  against  all  women,  because  they  were  some- 
how responsible  for  the  despicable  uneasiness  under  Fender's 
practised  surface. 

She  wondered  if  he  would  want  to  talk  to  her  at  all  at  the 
dance.  Then  she  would  discover  him,  perhaps. 

With  this  thought,  this  longing,  there  flashed  unbidden  in 
her  memory  the  vision  of  a  little  door  in  Italy,  once  pointed 
out  by  Mario.  It  was  that  door  in  the  garden  wall  of  a  villa 
through  which  a  famous  woman  was  said  to  have  welcomed 
her  lover.  Strange  that  Joanna  should  think  of  it  now! 
Strange  that  it  should  have  remained  forgotten  all  these  years 
to  recur  this  evening  like  an  unacknowledged,  all  unsatisfied 
desire! 

IV 

At  the  School  the  fun  was  in  full  swing  when  Mildred's 
party  arrived.  A  waltz  came  to  an  end  as  they  were  taking  off 


166  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

their  wraps,  and  Joanna  thought  Mrs.  Plummer  would  never 
stop  re-arranging  her  hair,  which  stayed  perfectly  untidy  in 
spite  of  prolonged  fingering. 

When  at  last  they  entered  the  dancing-room,  the  students 
were  grouping  themselves  noisily  for  the  foursome  reel.  Most 
of  the  dancers  already  stood  facing  one  another,  in  two 
double  lines  whkh  stretched  from  end  to  end  of  the  long  class- 
room; but  still  here  and  there  some  couples  ran  linked,  laugh- 
ing and  sliding  on  the  polished  floor  in  a  race  for  the  few  gaps 
left.  Onlookers  sat  round  on  benches,  or  on  the  floor.  Many 
had  kept  on  their  overalls  of  holland  or  blue  linen,  and  num- 
bers of  the  girls  were  so  young  that  their  hair  still  hung  over 
their  shoulders.  There  was  something  easy-going,  almost 
countrified  about  these  dances.  The  sloping  timbered  ceiling, 
hung  with  a  few  lanterns  of  yellowish  paper,  made  Joanna  feel 
as  if  she  were  in  a  barn;  and  she  thought  that  the  easels  and 
thrones  stacked  in  each  corner  looked  like  farm  implements. 

And  if  it  was  a  village  festival,  Mr.  Valentine  Plummer 
united  in  himself  the  parts  of  the  Squire  and  the  Vicar.  He 
came  effusively  to  greet  the  newcomers,  pressed  them  to  join 
in  at  once,  and  shepherded  them  to  the  far  end  of  the  room. 
"  There  is  always  room  at  the  top,"  he  said,  cracking  his 
little  parsonish  joke.  But  neither  the  Lovatts  nor  Mrs. 
Plummer  nor  Fender  could  dance  the  reel. 

Lawrence  Urquhart  glanced  at  Joanna,  biting  his  lip. 

"  You,  then,  bella  Signora!  "  exclaimed  the  Director  jocosely. 
"  Come.  Shall  it  be  said  that  a  Scotswoman  refused  to  take 
part  in  a  reel?  " 

"  Will  you?  "  asked  Lawrence. 

But  Joanna  shook  her  head,  excusing  herself. 

"Ah!  but  do,  do  dance  it!  " 

Not  Lawrence  this  time  but  Louis  Pender  had  spoken. 
He  stood  close  to  Joanna,  and  begged  like  a  lively  child  who 
fears  the  loss  of  a  long-promised  treat.  And  Joanna,  blushing 
deeply  with  pleasure,  laughed  and  yielded. 

She  gave  her  hand  to  Urquhart  who  was  clenching  his  black 
mortified  brows.  Only  to  please  this  other  was  he  accepted! 

Although  a  couple  was  wanted  almost  where  they  stood,  he 
set  off  with  her  to  the  far  end  of  the  room.  It  was  some  satis- 
faction to  him  that  he  was  really  dragging  her  there;  but 
he  suffered  too  all  the  way  from  the  hateful  reluctance  of 
her  body.  She  was  humiliated  by  his  knowledge  that  she 


OPENTHEDOOR  167 

desired  to  dance  before  the  other  man.  But  by  her  back- 
ward drag  on  his  arm  she  thrust  him  down  so  far  below  her- 
self that  her  humiliation  was  a  triumph  compared  with  his. 

Still  he  plodded  on,  his  head  forward  and  hanging  a  little. 
And  they  had  barely  got  to  their  places  when  the  band  let 
fly  with  the  tune. 

To  Joanna's  great  astonishment  Urquhart  danced  well.  It 
was  the  last  thing  she  had  expected  of  him;  but  he  sprang 
featly  to  music,  and  his  body  was  delivered  by  the  steady 
rhythm  from  all  stiffness  and  self-consciousness.  As  he  passed 
and  re-passed  her  in  the  figure  eight,  taking  first  one  of  her 
hands  and  then  the  other;  as  he  placed  his  own  hands  on  his 
slight  hips  or  raised  them  high  above  his  head;  as  he  swung 
his  partners  round,  each  time  lifting  them  clean  off  the  floor; 
above  all  as  he  came  to  go  through  his  complicated  steps 
facing  Joanna  in  the  middle,  gravely  leaping  on  his  small 
Highland  feet  while  the  couple  outside  beat  the  time  with  their 
hands;  the  young  man  was  wholly  possessed.  He  had  to  the 
full  that  tranced  and  happy  seriousness  which  is  the  spirit 
of  a  national  dance. 

From  the  outset  he  caught  Joanna  up  into  something  of 
his  own  dignity,  winning  her  surprised  acknowledgment.  Then, 
as  the  reel  progressed,  she  began  to  lose  all  sense  of  identity. 
Every  moment  she  became  less  herself,  more  a  mere  rhyth- 
mical expression  of  the  soil  from  which  they  both  had  sprung. 
The  memory  dawned  in  her  of  some  far  back  ancestress,  of 
whom  unheedingly  she  had  heard  her  mother  tell.  Fresh, 
dim,  sweet  like  dawn,  she  could  see  the  Stirlingshire  farmer's 
daughter  carrying  the  milk-pails  at  sunrise  and  at  sunset  to 
the  Castle  on  its  hill.  She  could  hear  the  swinging  clink  of 
the  pails,  could  smell  the  spilt,  clover-sweet  milk,  while  the 
farmer's  daughter  gave  her  lips  to  the  young,  unknown  Welsh 
soldier  who  kept  the  drawbridge.  She  was  that  lass,  that  meet- 
ing, without  which  her  being  would  not  have  been.  And  soon 
she  was  not  even  these.  Beneath  the  candid  darkness  of  Law- 
rence Urquhart's  face,  soon  she  was  no  more  than  a  field  of 
barley  that  swings  unseen  in  the  wind  before  dawn. 

But  suddenly,  though  the  music  went  on,  and  though  her 
feet  persisted  in  its  rhythms,  she  was  recalled  into  herself. 
Louis  Fender,  edging  along  by  the  wall,  had  come  unknown  to 
where  she  was  dancing.  And  now  that  she  had  seen  him, 
she  knew  nothing  else  but  that  he  watched  her  through  his 


168  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

glasses  with  his  practised,  unhappy  eyes.  She  did  not  look 
at  him,  but  his  being  there  changed  everything  for  her.  It 
changed  subtly  the  spirit  of  her  dancing  into  a  conscious  revela- 
tion and  a  less  conscious  withholding.  She  became  an  appeal, 
a  claim,  a  scarcely  endurable  excitement.  She  could  not  help 
herself. 

The  moment  the  music  stopped  she  longed  to  get  rid  of  her 
partner.  He  was  inexpressive  again,  but  that  was  not  why 
she  wanted  to  be  quit  of  him.  When  they  had  sat  silent  in 
the  corridor  for  a  minute,  and  he  had  brought  her  a  little  red 
glass  of  lemonade,  the  next  dance  was  announced.  It  was 
a  schottische,  and  Joanna  feared  that  Urquhart  would  ask  for 
it.  While  she  was  wondering  how  to  refuse,  Carl  Nilsson 
passed  them.  She  had  not  known  him  there  till  then,  and 
ran  to  him  with  relief,  an  impetuous  greeting  on  her  lips. 

She  introduced  the  two  men,  and  Urquhart  went  up  in  her 
mind  as  she  saw  them  clearly  take  to  each  other  from  the 
first.  Carl  was  no  dancer,  he  said,  and  had  only  looked  in 
for  a  moment.  He  was  even  now  making  for  home.  Yet  he 
stood  talking  to  the  younger  man,  which  Joanna  knew  he 
would  not  have  done  out  of  mere  politeness.  Her  own  escape, 
however,  was  still  first  with  her.  And  as  soon  as  she  could, 
she  slipped  away  to  where  Mrs.  Lovatt  was  sitting.  She  did 
not  even  notice  that  Carl  and  Lawrence  had  drawn  two  chairs 
for  themselves  into  a  quieter  angle  of  the  corridor. 


She  knew  now  that  Fender  would  seek  her  out. 

For  hours  she  had  been  looking,  unknowingly,  for  this 
moment.  It  had  lain  veiled  in  her  throughout  the  dinner; 
had  become  more  and  more  immanent  during  the  dark  cab 
drive;  and  had  leapt  into  certainty  as  a  tiger  leaps  from  its  lair, 
when  she  had  caught  sight  of  him  watching  the  dance. 

And  now  she  had  the  impulse  to  fly.  In  spite  of  her  ex- 
perience she  was  too  raw  and  unprepared — afraid  too,  terri- 
bly afraid.  She  rose,  making  in  a  panic  for  the  corridor.  She 
could  hide  downstairs. 

But  in  the  doorway  she  came  face  to  face  with  Fender. 
His  eyes  filled  with  light. 

"  Here  you  are!  "  he  said.  And  he  stood  smiling  at  her 
with  extraordinary  kindness,  such  as  she  had  never  seen  on 
any  face  before.  But  as  they  stood  looking  at  each  other, 


OPENTHEDOOR  169 

a  different  sparkling  triumphed  over  the  light  of  kindness  in 
his  eyes,  and  there  was  excitement  in  the  square,  nervous 
hand  that  stroked  his  mustache. 

The  woman  remained  perfectly  still  in  the  doorway.  She 
was  stiff  with  shyness  and  delight,  and  could  move  neither 
backward  into  the  room  nor  forward  into  the  corridor.  The 
man's  physical  nearness  robbed  her  of  initiative. 

u  Is  there  ever  such  a  thing  as  a  waltz  at  your  Glasgow 
balls?  "  he  asked  with  a  touch  of  petulance  that  she  liked.  "  I 

understand  the  next  dance  is  a  scot scot ,  something 

that  sounds  like  catching  cold." 

"  A  schottische?  "  Joanna  laughed. 

Up  flew  Fender's  eyebrows,  and  without  any  other  per- 
ceptible change,  every  line  in  his  face  and  body  became  ex- 
pressive of  comic  despair. 

"  I  ask  you,  do  you  see  me  dancing  it?  " 

He  had  the  comedian's  gift,  and  Joanna's  laughter  rang 
out  readily.  Yet  it  was  above  all  when  he  was  clowning  for 
her  entertainment  that  she  felt  the  underlying  discord  and 
distress  of  the  man.  Her  heart  seemed  to  drip  sweetly  with 
pity  for  him,  like  a  full  honey-comb.  It  was  as  if  her  blood 
told  her  that  there  was  virtue  in  her  for  his  healing,  his 
lavish  consolation. 

"  Come  and  sit  it  out  with  me,"  he  urged.  "  I've  seen  the 
very  place  for  us  downstairs.  It's  so  hot  and  noisy  up  here. 
I  hate  it." 

There  was  empty  chairs  on  the  landing,  and  Fender  with 
Joanna  on  his  arm  hesitated  a  second  before  taking  her  do^yn- 
stairs.  It  was  one  of  these  little  human  waverings  that  are  so 
pathetic  on  the  eve  of  an  already  settled  fate.  There  they 
stood  poised,  she  in  her  gay  dress,  all  billowing  in  the  draught 
from  the  ball-room,  her  face  turned  like  a  flower,  like  a  ques- 
tion, to  the  man's,  abiding  his  decision;  he,  refusing  his  answer, 
taking  counsel  alone,  weighing  his  little  world  that  he  hated 
yet  feared,  between  his  palms,  and  gnawing  anxiously  at 
his  petulant  under-lip. 

"  I  suppose  at  dances  in  London  there  are  nothing  but 
waltzes  now?  "  Joanna  asked,  when  they  had  got  half-way 
downstairs.  But  she  did  not  even  notice  that  her  question 
remained  unanswered.  She  was  all  exultation  in  the  surety 
that  he  too  had  been  waiting  for  this.  Had  he  not  looked 
for  a  place  apart  where  they  could  sit  together  and  talk? 


i7o  OPENTHEDOOR 

When  he  led  her  along  a  darkened  passage  on  the  ground 
floor,  she  guessed  they  were  going  to  the  Antique  Class-room; 
but  the  room  they  entered  was  worlds  removed  from  the  fam- 
iliar place  in  which  she  had  worked  through  many  an  hour 
of  daylight.  Its  known  contours  were  all  disfigured  by  moon- 
light, and  by  the  straggling  rays  of  a  street  lamp  which  came 
mixed  with  moonlight  through  the  long  plaster-coated  win- 
dows. The  statues  lurked  strangely  in  corners.  The  place 
was  not  illumined;  its  darkness  was  made  manifest,  and  its 
unsuspected  secrets  of  darkness. 

In  silence  Joanna  perched  on  a  high  stool,  and  her  compan- 
ion pulled  forward  a  small  throne  on  castors,  and  sat  upon 
it  between  her  and  the  windows  which  all  ran  along  one  wall. 
Color  could  not  persist  in  this  underworld,  and  Joanna's 
head  and  shoulders  and  breast,  rising  from  her  dress,  might 
have  been  of  marble  but  for  the  living  shadows.  Fender's 
face  was  in  deep  shade.  She  could  only  see  the  glint  of  his 
glasses,  and  his  lightly  clasped  hands,  caught  by  a  shaft  of 
light  from  the  street  as  he  leaned  forward,  elbows  on  knees. 
The  music  of  the  schottische  came  to  them  from  far  above, 
not  as  melody,  but  as  a  monotonous  pulse  of  sound.  They 
were  together,  hidden,  remote,  in  a  forsaken  world  revolving 
in  melancholy  but  beautiful  twilight. 

"  What  a  thing  light  is!  "  exclaimed  Fender  in  low,  struck 
tones.  "  As  I  see  you  now,  I  shouldn't  know  you  for  the 
same  woman  I  saw  ten  minutes  ago,  dancing." 

Joanna,  in  the  reel,  had  seemed  to  him,  for  all  her  slight- 
ness  of  figure,  like  a  young  heifer  in  a  clover  field,  essentially 
sturdy,  full  of  unbroken,  untouched  vigor;  and  the  combina- 
tion of  this  with  her  face  which  he  found  over-refined  in  fea- 
tures, had  inflamed  him  to  a  degree  astonishing  to  himself. 
Now  she  was  suddenly  aloof  as  a  moon-maiden,  and  his  pas- 
sion recoiled  into  himself.  But  he  was  surer  than  before  of  her 
attraction  for  him, — surer  rather  of  the  special  quality  of  the 
attraction. 

"  Yes,  everything  is  different,"  she  agreed,  her  voice  also 
quiet  with  wonder.  "  I  am  only  beginning  to  see  you  now. 
It's  so  queer,  isn't  it,  how  every  bit  of  color  is  washed  out? 
I  can  never  help  thinking  that  color  is  really  form,  though 
I  suppose  we  know  it  isn't." 

The  speech  pleased  Fender. 

"  Who  really  knows  what  color  is?  "  he  said.    "  But  I  be- 


OPEN   THE    DOOR  171 

lieve  I  get  that  feeling  at  times ."  His  grave,  interested 

voice  was  charming  to  Joanna ;  and  suddenly  he  leaned  further 
forward,  looking  up  at  her,  his  face  coming  into  the  shaft 
of  light,  his  eyes  no  longer  appraising. 

"  Will  you  sit  for  me  some  day?  "  he  asked,  with  such 
boyish,  shy  directness,  that  it  was  like  taking  off  a  mask 
or  -throwing  open  a  door  for  her  to  enter. 

"I'd  like  to,"  Joanna  replied  in  simple  delight;  but  even 
as  she  spoke  her  simplicity  gave  way  to  excitement,  and  she 
became  rigid  with  it  as  she  had  been  in  the  doorway  up- 
stairs. 

"  Good.  That's  settled."  Fender  spoke  evenly,  but  the 
excitement  was  mounting  in  him  also.  "  As  soon  as  I  can  get 
some  sort  of  a  studio  rigged  up,  I'll  let  you  know," — and 
though  he  had  leaned  back  into  the  darkness  again,  Joanna 
could  feel  the  unsheathed  boldness  of  his  eyes  like  weapons, 
there  in  the  darkness  like  weapons  ready  to  strike.  And  sud- 
denly she  remembered  something  of  the  hawk  in  his  face — was 
it  the  eyes,  the  nose,  or  was  it  no  matter  of  feature? 

Two  long  ends  of  narrow,  bright  blue  ribbon  hung  from 
Joanna's  waist  to  the  floor  on  the  side  where  Fender  was;  and 
when  he  had  spoken  she  saw  his  hand  go  out  and  take  hold 
of  these.  She  saw  his  hand  slip  gleaming,  snake-like,  through 
the  discovering  ray,  passing  swiftly  from  dark  to  dark,  and 
though  it  was  only  her  ribbon  he  touched,  a  quiver  passed 
through  her  whole  frame. 

"  You  are  going  to  paint  Mrs.  Tullis  too?  "  Against  her 
will  Joanna  asked  this,  but  she  must  hear  his  voice  when  he 
spoke  of  this  other  woman. 

Fender  stopped  his  winding  up  of  the  ribbon,  which  had 
seemed  as  if  lessening  the  distance  between  them,  and  answered 
rather  stiffly. 

"  I  may,  if  she  has  time  to  sit."  Then  he  went  on  with  his 
winding,  gathering  a  larger  and  larger  spool  of  the  silk  girdle 
between  his  finger  and  thumb. 

"  You  like  her?  " 

Under  Joanna's  persistence  he  moved  abruptly,  but  with 
what  meaning  she  could  not  tell. 

"  She's  a  very  charming  woman — or  was — "  he  said,  and 
he  flicked  the  spool  of  ribbon  from  him  so  that  it  lay  split 
again  on  the  floor.  "  I've  not  seen  her  for  some  time.  But 
don't  you  know  her?  " 


i72  OPEN    THE   DOOR 

"  No.  You  say  you  like  her?  "  Joanna  hated  herself,  but 
could  not  refrain. 

For  this  last  minute  they  had  talked  in  strained,  unhappy 
voices,  but  Fender  broke  the  tension  between  them  with  a 
little  laugh. 

"  I  couldn't  say  till  I  see  her  again  whether  I  like  her  or 
not,"  he  said,  speaking  now  quite  naturally.  "  I  once  liked 
her  very  much  indeed;  but  one  never  knows  how  one  will 
feel  after  six  months,  let  alone  two  years  and  more.  Don't 
you  find  it  so?  " 

So  he  had  told  her!  And  though  Joanna  was  taken  aback 
by  what  she  rightly  felt  to  be  the  directness  of  his  reply,  she 
understood  and  was  grateful.  This  man,  she  realized,  had 
his  loves,  like  the  Italians  of  whom  Mario  and  Maddalena  had 
been  used  to  speak  casually.  He  was  of  those  who  took  un- 
faithfulness in  marriage  as  a  matter  of  course.  And  there 
flickered  again  in  the  girl's  mind,  like  a  single  phrase  from  a 
melody  but  once  heard,  the  remembrance  of  that  little,  secret 
door,  set  deep  in  the  wall  of  La  Porziuncola. 

"  While  I'm  waiting  about  in  Glasgow —  "  he  was  speaking 

again.    " I  hear  there's  a  cottage  and  studio  I  might  get 

at  a  place  called  Carmunnock — said  to  be  nice.    Do  you  know 
that  part?    I  couldn't  stand  being  in  Glasgow  itself." 

Joanna  spoke  a  little  about  the  country  round  Carmunnock, 
and  the  talk  faded  out. 

They  rose  indefinitely  and  moved  to  the  door. 

On  the  lighted  stairs  each  looked  timidly  at  each  to  discover 
the  new  thing,  the  fine,  frail  intimacy  that  had  sprung  up  be- 
tween them  in  the  darkness. 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  wanted  when  I  was  watching  you 
dance?  "  said  he,  smiling  into  her  eyes.  "  I  wanted  to  see 
you  on  the  Downs,  in  the  wind,  with  your  face  red  from  the 
sun,  and  your  hair  all  blown  about  anyhow.  Do  you  think 
I  ever  shall?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  there  are  no  Downs  at  Carmunnock,"  she 
replied,  smiling  back  with  an  unaccustomed  touch  of  coquetry. 

"  That's  a  pity." 

"  But  there  are  moors." 

"  A  moor  will  serve,"  he  allowed,  showing  his  amusement. 

"  Will  your  wife  be  coming  to  Glasgow?  "  Joanna  presently 
asked,  in  a  different,  very  steady  voice.  And  at  the  ques- 


OPENTHEDOOR  173 

tion  so  flatly  put,  Louis  gave  her  a  glance  in  which  resent- 
ment was  struggling  with  his  amusement. 

"  She  may,  or  may  not,"  he  answered,  in  some  confusion. 

This  woman's  bluntness,  stimulated,  and  at  the  same  time 
repelled  him  a  little.  She  had  had  a  husband,  he  told  him- 
self; so  she  must  know  her  whereabouts.  Had  she  been  the 
untouched  creature  she  seemed,  of  course  he  would  have  let 
her  be.  There  was  danger  in  her  certainly.  But  it  was  his 
danger.  He  supposed  she  could  look  out  for  herself. 

Upstairs  he  asked  her  for  the  waltz  which  had  just  begun. 
She  refused;  he  insisted.  But  it  was  a  failure.  And  when 
he  had  gone  half  round  the  room  with  her,  trying  every  few 
turns  to  make  her  reverse,  he  stopped  and  took  her  away. 

"You  were  right:  you  are  no  waltzer,  my  child,"  he  said, 
resignedly. 

At  his  rudeness  the  tears  sprang  to  Joanna's  eyes.  She  was 
already  sick  with  vexation  at  her  failure. 

"  I  was  never  allowed  to  have  lessons,"  she  said,  biting 
her  trembling  lip.  "  This  is  the  first  dance  I've  ever  been  to." 

Upon  this  he  eyed  her  quickly. 

"Well,  well,  never  mind  my  rudeness,"  he  said  in  hasty 
shame.  "  It's  easy  enough  to  learn.  I  didn't  want  to  hurt 
you,  but  it  was  such  a  disappointment." 

Though  there  was  some  penitence  here,  he  was  still  child- 
ishly overcome  by  his  impatience  of  being  thwarted  in  a 
pleasure.  He  asked  no  further  question,  and  Joanna  felt 
he  would  not  have  been  interested  had  she  told  him  of  the 
prayer  meeting  and  her  hidden  ball-dress.  Yet  she  knew  he 
was  somehow  vitally  interested  in  her.  How  was  it,  then? 
She  was  at  a  loss,  and  groping  for  the  key  to  his  nature. 

It  was  late  when  the  waltz  finished.  Joanna  realized  that 
she  must  go  home.  Mildred,  who  was  passing  on  Valentine 
Plummer's  arm,  told  them  that  Urquhart  had  gone  some  time 
ago.  *And  when  she  added  that  he  was  working  at  nights 
for  a  fellowship,  Joanna  felt  a  stab  to  her  vanity.  She  would 
have  been  gratified  to  think  that  he  had  left  early  on  her 
account.  She  was  relieved  however  that  he  had  not  seen  her 
in  the  waltz  with  Fender. 

The  rain  was  slashing  outside,  but  she  had  only  to  cross 
the  road  to  be  at  home.  And  so  great  now  was  her  longing 
for  solitude,  that  she  could  hardly  endure  the  walk  downstairs 


i74  OPEN   THE    DOOR 

in  Fender's  company,  nor  his  insistence  in  seeing  her  to  her 
very  door. 

"  You  will  get  drenched,"  she  remonstrated,  looking  at  his 
bare  head  in  the  slanting  rain;  and  with  a  h*urried  hand- 
shake she  ran  up  the  steps  of  her  mother's  house  and  let  her- 
self in. 

But  when  the  door  was  shut  between  them,  she  bent  down  to 
look  back  at  him,  through  the  old  devil's  beard  in  the  glass. 
She  looked,  as  long  ago  she  had  once  looked  at  her  dead 
father. 

Louis  was  turning  away,  slowly  in  spite  of  the  rain. 


CHAPTER  III 


ON"  Saturday  afternoon,  according  to  Mildred's  invita- 
tion, Joanna  went  to  Panmure  Crescent. 

The  house,  as  she  entered  it,  had  none  of  its  usual  effect 
upon  her,  and  she  passed  through  the  blue  and  black  hall 
quite  absorbed.  With  what  face  would  he  meet  her? 

But  only  h^r  hostess  and  Lawrence  Urquhart  were  in  the 
drawing-room. 

"  Fancy!  Mr.  Fender  has  had  to  go  back  to  town:  isn't 
it  too  sad?  "  said  Mildred,  as  she  shook  hands. 

Joanna,  standing  there  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  felt 
as  if  she  had  been  dealt  a  violent  and  treacherous  blow.  It 
was  a  wonder  to  her  that  she  remained  erect.  But  even  so, 
a  moment  passed  before  she  could  admit  to  herself  that  any- 
thing had  happened.  "  Town "  to  any  Glasgow  person 
means  Buchanan  Street:  and  though  Joanna  perfectly 
grasped  the  meaning  of  the  word  on  Mildred's  lips,  she  seized 
on  this  poor  excuse  for  confusion  as  a  momentary  anaesthetic. 
Only  thus  could  she  survive  the  first  shock  without  betrayal. 

Then  as  the  drug  wore  off  she  faced  the  news  with  gathering 
strength.  He  had  gone  away  to  London.  She  was  not  to 
see  him  to-day.  She  might  not  ever  see  him  again.  She  only 
knew  by  their  shattering  how  many  pictures  of  meeting  she 
had  woven  since  the  parting  of  the  night  before.  With  a 
costly  effort  she  collected  herself  now  and  shook  Urquhart's 
outstretched  hand. 

"  It's  hard  lines  on  us," — Mrs.  Lovatt  was  talking  as  she 
poured  out  tea — "  and  I  expect  Mrs.  Tullis  will  feel  sold  if 
she  comes:  but  it  was  good  news  for  Fender.  He  got  the 
telegram  at  lunch-time  and  just  caught  the  two  o'clock  train. 
Some  dealer  from  Paris  wants  to  see  him  about  a  one  man  show 
there.  I  could  hardly  believe  it,  when  he  told  me  this  would 
be  the  first,  either  in  Paris  or  London.  It  seems  too  prepos- 
terous. But  he  says  the  money  or  the  luck  has  always  been 

i75 


176  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

wanting.    That  Fender  should  still  be  so  hard  up  is  a  standing 

wonder  to  me.    When  I  think  of  his  things !   There's  only 

one  Fender.    Don't  you  agree?  " 

"  I  take  it,"  said  Urquhart,  "  that  he  hasn't  practised  the 
great  art  of  self-advertisement." 

(Joanna  moved  impatiently  in  her  chair.  "  /  take  it  I " 
What  a  stilted  way  he  had  of  speaking! ) 

"  That's  it  exactly!  "  responded  Mildred  with  animation. 
"  And  not  only  that,  but  he  has  never  troubled  to  hide  his 
contempt  for  those  who  do  practise  it.  They  say  he  is  the 
most  unpopular  artist  among  artists  in  London.  There's 
no  doubt  that  something  in  his  personality  has  stood  in  the 
way  of  his  getting  on.  But  it's  a  sin  all  the  same.  To  think 
of  the  prices  his  stuff  will  fetch  the  minute  he's  dead!  And 
I've  no  doubt  the  dealers  are  beginning  to  realize  this.  The 
brutes!  " 

"  Would  you  guess,"  she  continued,  handing  a  cup  to  Jo- 
anna, "  that  he  was  geting  on  for  fifty.  Forty-seven,  he  must 
be,  at  the  very  least.  Would  you  think  so?  " 

"  I  can  never  guess  ages,"  replied  Joanna,  as  she  had  to 
reply,  "  but  I  shouldnft  have  thought  him  so  old." 

To  her  fifty  was  age,  was  worlds  removed  from  herself. 
Her  father,  she  knew,  had  been  barely  fifty  when  he  died, 
and  she  had  always  thought  of  him  as  an  old  man. 

Yet  in  connection  with  Louis  Fender,  the  word  fifty,  re- 
mained meaningless.  So  far  as  she  was  concerned  it  had  no 
bearing  on  him. 

"  Physically  he  may  look  younger,  perhaps,"  said  Urquhart 
with  calm  unexpectedness,  "  but  I,  myself,  should  have  put 
him  down  as  older. 

Under  the  questioning  looks  of  both  the  women,  he  was 
quite  aware  that  he  had  blundered,  but  he  persisted. 

"  I  mean,"  he  said,  "  he  looks  to  me  so  sick  and  tired  of 
everything." 

"  I  think  he  looks  very  much  younger  than  his  age,"  said 
Joanna  displeased. 

"  So  do  I,  I  must  say,"  agreed  Mildred,  "  though  of  course 
I  know  what  you  mean,  Mr.  Urquhart.  He  looks  rather  dis- 
illusioned. His  marriage — ah  well!  "  And  she  sighed,  lifting 
her  brows  a  little. 

Presently  she  noticed  that  Joanna's  eyes  had  strayed  ques- 
tioningly  to  a  pile  of  art  magazines  surmounted  by  a  case 


OPEN   THE   DOOR  177 

tied  with  tapes,  which  lay  on  the  sofa  opposite  beside  Lawrence 
Urquhart. 

"  Don't  tell  me  that  I  never  showed  you  my  Fenders?  " 
she  exclaimed.  "  Is  it  possible?  Mr.  Urquhart  has  just  been 
looking  at  them.  Pass  the  case,  will  you,  Mr.  Urquhart?  Or 
will  you  sit  on  the  sofa,  Joanna?  " 

Hungering  for  a  sight  of  Fender's  work,  Joanna  crossed  to 
where  Urquhart  was,  and  sat  down  by  him.  As  he  handed 
her  the  uppermost  picture,  her  eyes  were  so  dizzied  with  excite- 
ment that  she  could  scarcely  see;  but  instinctively,  with  pro- 
tective deceit,  she  held  it  from  her  in  the  approved  atti- 
tude of  the  student. 

Then  gradually  as  her  blood  subsided  and  her  eyes  served 
her  again,  she  became  conscious  of  disappointment. 

Could  it  be  possible  that  he  was  only  a  fan  painter?  Cer- 
tainly this  that  she  held  in  her  hand  was  the  design  for  a  fan! 

To  spare  her  the  weight  the  drawings  would  have  been  upon 
her  knees,  Lawrence  passed  them  to  her  one  by  one,  and  she 
resented  his  handling  of  them.  More  and  more  burningly 
she  resented  his  presence,  Mildred's  presence,  Mildred's  run- 
ning commentary  of  explanation  and  praise.  If  only  she  might 
be  alone  with  Fender's  work! 

"  That  now,  that  you  are  looking  at!  "  cried  Mildred  point- 
ing a  forefinger.  "  It's  early  work  of  course,  and  one  can 
see  that  he  was  under  the  spell  of  Veronese.  But  even  then 
it  seems  to  me  he  had  nothing  to  learn  from  Veronese  himself 
in  the  matter  of  color.  Just  see  the  red  of  that  dress  by 
the  pillar  in  the  fore-ground,  with  the  blue,  night  sky  behind 
these  high-arched  windows.  Doesn't  it  sing?  And  the  com- 
position! All  these  figures  on  a  small  fan:  yet  the  whole  is 
as  broad  and  mellow  as  a  fresco  on  the  wall  of  a  palace.  The 
sense  of  space  is  marvellous." 

Under  this  fire  of  enthusiasm  Joanna  felt  her  every  nerve 
frayed.  But  at  the  very  point  when  she  believed  her  endur- 
ance was  at  an  end,  the  drawing-room  door  opened  and  Mrs. 
Tullis  was  announced. 

As  soon  as  she  had  touched  pretty  Mrs.  Tullis's  hard  hand, 
and  heard  her  little  hard  laugh  which  sounded  too  often, 
Joanna  blamed  and  despised  her. 

The  woman  had  finish.  And  that  Joanna  admired  jeal- 
ously. She  had  a  kittenish  charm  too,  though  it  was  harden- 
ing a  little,  growing  a  thought  brittle.  Enviable  looks  she 


i78  OPEN   THE    DOOR 

had.  lovely  hair  and  eyes.  And  under  all  there  was  a  hard, 
excitable  sexuality,  for  which  against  her  will  Joanna  was 
sensible  of  a  certain  respect.  She  believed  Mrs.  Tullis  worlds 
more  attractive  to  a  man  like  Fender — or  for  that  matter 
to  any  man — than  she  herself  could  ever  hope  to  be.  She 
felt  crude  by  the  side  of  Mrs.  Tullis.  Yet  in  that  same  in- 
stant she  denied  Mrs.  Tullis's  claim  to  any  attraction  or  beauty 
whatsoever.  Nay.  even  while  she  sat  trembling  with  primitive 
jealousy,  she  was  possessed  of  the  proud  and  dangerous  know- 
ledge of  her  own  intrinsic  superiority.  She  could  not  have 
named  it,  could  not  even  examine  into  it.  But  there  lay  in 
her  a. gift  for  Fender  which  he  could  never  receive  or  have 
received  from  this  other  woman.  And  hi  this  she  triumphed. 

Within  ten  minutes,  not  merely  jealousy,  but  ordinary  in- 
terest had  faded;  and  Joanna  began  to  look  once  more  at  the 
drawings,  now  all  collected  in  spite  of  Urquhart,  on  her  lap. 

And  by  degrees,  as  the  voices  of  Mrs.  Tullis  and  her  hostess 
sounded  alternately,  now  speaking  of  Fender's  enforced,  hasty 
return  to  London,  now  questioning  Urquhart  politely  as  to  the 
exact  subject  of  his  thesis  for  a  forthcoming  fellowship,  she 
found  herself  entering  into  the  fantasy  of  the  artist. 

At  first  she  had  been  taken  aback  by  the  occasional  weakness 
and  even  faultiness  of  his  drawing.  Now,  wth  her  sight  sharp- 
ened by  decisive  emotion,  she  realized  only  that  she  was  en- 
tering the  country  of  his  desire,  and  that  it  was  a  country 
which  she  had  longed  all  her  life  to  visit. 

It  was  a  world  of  elegance  passionately  felt,  of  gallantry 
founded  on  a  perfection  of  melancholy.  Its  beauty  was  full 
of  farewells,  at  times  resigned,  at  times  defiant  but  always 
exquisite.  And  before  one  could  enter  this  world  one  had  to 
learn  the  idiom  of  its  creator.  This  was  the  more  difficult, 
because  unlike  so  many  moderns,  Fender  had  imposed  on  him- 
self severe  conventions.  It  seemed  he  had  to  work  in  fetters. 
Joanna  discovered  that  he  was  least  sure  of  himself  when  con- 
fronted by  an  actual  sitter  or  a  real  landscape.  With  any 
attempt  at  realism  the  soul  was  apt  to  go  out  of  his  work. 

When  Mrs.  Tullis  left,  Joanna  hardly  marked  her  going. 


During  the  next  week  she  worked  little  and  carelessly,  di- 
viding her  time  between  Panmure  Cresent  and  Sans  Souci. 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  179 

She  found  herself  avoiding  Carl  Xilsson's  inquiring  eye  on 
the  few  occasions  when  she  attended  his  class,  and  was  thank- 
ful that  he  never  persisted  to  the  point  of  speech. 

She  grew  skilful  at  inventing  pretexts  for  seeing  Mildred, 
and  if  ia  their  talk  Fender's  name  was  not  spoken,  she  re- 
turned home  feeling  empty.  She  brooded  over  each  scrap  of 
knowledge,  piecing  them  together.  Very  soon  she  was  in 
possession  of  all  that  Mildred  could  give  her. 

It  appealed  to  her  imagination,  that  by  the  strangest  of 
chances  Fender  had  been  born  in  Glasgow. 

His  father  a  Hungarian  actor  with  a  self-cultivated  talent 
for  scene-painting,  and  his  mother,  an  English  parson's 
daughter,  who,  eloping  with  the  elder  Louis,  had  made  a 
quite  noteworthy  career  for  herself  on  the  stage,  had  been 
staying  in  theatrical  lodgings  in  Glasgow  when  their  only  child 
was  born.  Later  they  had  ceased  their  roving  life,  establishing 
themselves  at  Baling;  and  until  she  became  an  old  woman, 
Madame  Fender — as  she  called  herself  in  her  widowhood — 
had  maintained  some  reputation  as  a  teacher  of  elocution  in 
that  suburb. 

From  the  first,  young  Louis  had  showed  a  gift  for  drawing, 
and  his  mother  had  let  him  follow  his  bent.  At  the  Art  School 
he  had  quarreled  with  his  teachers,  been  disliked  by  his  fel- 
low-students, and  failed  to  win  all  save  one  of  the  scholar- 
ships on  which  his  parent's  heart  was  set.  But  even  so 
there  was  never  any  doubt  of  his  ability.  And  now  at  middle 
age,  after  many  rebuffs,  and  much  bad  fortune  he  had  in  his 
own  peculiar  way,  arrived. 

Concerning  his  marriage,  Joanna  could  not  bring  herself 
to  question  her  friend  directly.  But  there  was  no  need.  For 
here,  with  some  head-shaking,  Mildred  was  at  her  most  com- 
municative. 

He  had  married  young,  she  said, — a  handsome  girl  of  more 
distinguished  social  connect 'ons  than  his  own.  And  his  wife's 
money,  though  it  had  unf  -tunately  been  lost  within  a  few 
years  of  their  marriage,  had  helped  at  a  critical  time  in  his 
career.  It  was  common  talk  that  for  many  years  past  he  had 
foraged  for  love  (though  always  with  a  certain  discretion) 
outside  matrimony;  and  surprise  was  sometimes  expressed 
that  an  open  break  had  never  occurred.  Now  it  was  no 
longer  expected.  People  understood  that  the  couple  were  held 
together  by  worldly  interest,  and  by  their  twin  sons,  bora  in 


iSo  OPENTHEDOOR 

the  first  year  of  marriage,  old  enough  now  for  one  to  be  in  the 
army  and  the  other  just  entering  the  Indian  Civil  Service. 


ni 

At  Sans  Souci  apart  from  Phemie  herself,  it  was  the  music 
which  had  become  the  great  attraction  for  Joanna. 

Though  Phemie  was  the  only  one  who  had  been  trained  save 
in  the  most  haphazard  way,  the  whole  family  was  gifted  with 
music,  and  the  sisters,  besides  having  good  natural  voices, 
possessed  an  extraordinary  sense  of  style. 

Joanna  never  tired  of  listening  on  the  evenings  when  five 
or  six  of  the  girls  crowded  round  Phemie  at  the  piano,  to 
"  try  over  bits," — sometimes  out  of  an  operetta,  at  other  times 
from  the  St.  Matthew  or  the  St.  John  Passion  Music;  for  they 
all  belonged  to  the  Bach  Choir  and  practised  hard  for  the 
Easter  performance  in  the  Cathedral. 

Then  how  serious,  fresh  and  beautiful  the  Pringle  girls 
looked.  But  always,  after  a  time,  Nora  the  youngest  grew 
tired  of  not  laughing:  and  she  would  introduce  some  absurd 
words,  or  with  all  the  terrific  complacency  of  a  prima  donna, 
some  flowery  musical  phrase  of  her  own;  until  at  last  the 
chiding  gravity  of  the  others  was  upset.  Once  "  our  Nora  " 
started  there  was  no  stopping  her,  and  from  making  subtly, 
comic  grimaces,  she  would  grow  wilder  and  wilder  in  her  clown- 
ing till  every  one  was  in  paroxysms,  and  there  could  be  no 
more  Bach  that  night. 

Nora  it  was  who  discovered  in  some  magazine,  the  mar- 
vellous "  bloom-bath  "  alleged  to  be  the  secret  of  Mrs.  Langtry's 
beauty.  And  one  afternoon  when  Joanna  should  have  been 
at  the  Art  School,  she  and  Nora  and  Phemie  in  their  petti- 
coats, with  shrieks  of  laughter  and  pain  nearly  steamed  the 
skin  off  their  faces.  There  was  always  some  "  ploy  "  for- 
ward with  the  Pringles,  and  Joanna,  who  in  these  ways  had 
never  been  young  before,  entered  into  everything  like  a 
schoolgirl. 

It  was  some  time  before  she  realized  that  the  Pringle  girls 
deeply  hated  the  disorder  and  publicity  of  their  home-life: 
that  although  outwardly  they  combined  with  zest  to  keep  it 
going,  each  concealed  a  passionate  longing  for  escape. 

Phemie  especially  fretted  for  the  day  when  she  and  her 
Jimmie  would  be  able  to  afford  marriage.  And  the  existence 


OPEN   THE   DOOR  181 

the  two  had  planned  for  themselves,  was  in  every  respect 
opposed  to  existence  at  Sans  Souci.  A  dignified  and  beautiful 
quiet  was  its  essential. 

"  No  ornaments  hardly,  as  they  only  make  work,"  Phemie 
was  discoursing  one  night  as  she  showed  Joanna  the  piled- 
up  treasures  of  her  "  bottom-drawer."  "  But  lots  of  really 
lovely  linen,  all  kept  with  lavender  in  among  it.  O!  I  do 
love  the  feel  of  good  linen  in  my  hands,  don't  you,  Joanna?  " 

And  lifting  out  a  folded  linen  sheet,  elaborately  hem-stitched, 
Phemie  sniffed  its  fragrance  appreciatively  with  her  little  nose. 

"  And  all  the  furniture  real  antique — Jimmie  has  collected 
quite  a  lot — not  '  arty  '  you  know  Joanna,  but  just  old  and 
good, — and  chintz  covered  with  roses  in  the  drawing-room, — 
and  all  Jimmie's  books,  and  a  Bechstein  grand, — and  the  bed- 
room all  white  with  pink  roses  on  the  wall-paper — roses  I 
do  love  and  adore.  And  at  nights  Jimmie  and  I  will  sit 
before  the  fire  in  perfect  arm-chairs  reading — and  of  course 
I'll  change  every  evening  into  a  tea  gown — the  most  exquisite 
ever! — pink  of  the  palest — and  fearfully  simple!  " 

As  she  spoke,  Phemie  was  rummaging  in  the  drawer  (she 
could  keep  no  drawer  tidy, — not  even  this  sacred  bottom  one) 
and  presently  finding  what  she  sought,  she  drew  forth  a 
night-gown  of  gossamer. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  this  pattern,  my  darling?  That's 
none  of  Mamma's  goods,  as  you  may  perchance  guess;  our 
Nora  got  it  from  an  American  girl.  Feel  the  stuff!  " 

Joanna  laid  admiring  fingers  on  the  lawn  and  lace,  and  put 
her  cheek  luxuriously  against  its  softness.  She  thought  of 
Maddalena,  and  seemed  to  hear  her  bass  voice  denouncing 
the  beautifully  flimsy  garment.  And  surely  Maddalena  would 
have  died  of  horror  could  she  have  seen  Phemie  dressing  any 
afternoon  to  meet  her  Jimmie  in  town!  Every  drawer  and 
door  in  the  bedroom  stood  open;  and  from  a  tousled  trunk 
under  the  bed  Phemie  would  select  a  flower,  a  feather,  a  tip 
of  fur,  or  bow  of  ribbon,  which,  straightening  impatiently 
before  the  mirror,  she  would  pin  upon  a  hat  from  which  last 
day's  trimmings  had  been  hastily  torn.  Sometimes  the  result 
was  happy,  oftener  it  was  not.  But  always,  as  she  turned  her 
bird-like  head  this  way  and  that,  to  see  the  effect  of  the  decora- 
tion, Joanna  was  delighted  by  her  friend's  odd,  endearing 
beauty. 

"  You    see,"    continued    Phemie,    breaking    into    Joanna's 


182  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

thoughts  of  Maddalena,    "  I  suppose  a  woman  is  a  kind  of 
fairy  to  a  man.  Isn't  that  so,  my  darling?  " 

IV 

One  Thursday,  calling  at  Panmure  Crescent  on  the  pretext 
of  returning  a  borrowed  book,  Joanna  found  Lawrence  Urqu- 
hart  there  again.  She  was  vexed  at  this.  It  was  three  weeks 
now  since  Fender's  going,  and  she  had  come  hoping  for  word 
of  his  return.  But  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  speak  of 
him  before  Urquhart. 

"  I'm  glad  you  have  come  to-day,  Joanna,"  was  Mildred's 
greeting.  "  I  have  news  for  you." 

"  I  think  it  will  please  you,"  she  continued,  nodding  mys- 
teriously. "  Just  wait  a  moment.  The  letter  is  downstairs." 
And  she  left  the  room. 

A  pulse  beat  in  Joanna's  throat.  Surely,  at  last  he  must 
have  written.  Or  was  there  news  from  the  Town  Council? 
If  his  designs  had  been  accepted  he  should  soon  be  back  in 
Glasgow.  More  than  ever  now  she  wished  Urquhart  absent. 
Why  should  he  dog  her  footsteps  in  this  way? 

But  he  seemed  unconscious  of  her  resentment,  and  the 
moment  Mildred  had  gone,  he  began  to  talk  with  less  than  his 
usual  hesitation. 

He  had  just  discovered,  he  told  her,  that  his  mother,  who 
as  a  girl  had  "  sat  under  "  Joanna's  grandfather  at  St.  Jude's 
had  been  in  those  days  a  constant  playmate  of  the  Bannerman 
children.  Her  particular  friend,  it  seemed,  had  been  a  daughter 
called  "  Gina." 

"  That  must  have  been  Aunt  Georgina,"  asserted  Joanna, 
"  though  it  is  difficult  to  think  she  was  ever  little,  and  even 
if  she  was,  I  can  hardly  believe  that  anyone  would  dare  to 
call  her  'Gina!  '" 

"  Come  one  afternoon  to  our  house  and  talk  to  my  mother 
about  her,"  invited  Lawrence.  "  She  will  love  it  if  you  will. 
She  asked  me  to  tell  you  so." 

Joanna  promised  that  she  would  call  upon  Mrs.  Urquhart, 
and  an  afternoon  was  fixed  for  the  following  week.  Even 
while  she  told  herself  that  in  common  courtesy  she  could  do 
no  less,  she  found  herself  interested  suddenly  in  the  young 
man's  dark  irregularity  of  feature.  Certainly  his  face  could 
light  up  in  an  unexpected  way. 

Mildred  now  returned  holding  an  open  letter. 


OPENTHEDOOR  183 

"  Here  it  is,"  she  said.  "  Now  listen,  and  tell  me  if  this 
isn't  what  you  have  been  longing  for?  No,  you  mustn't 
go,  Mr.  Urquhart.  It's  nothing  private.  No,  indeed  it  isn't. 
Do  stay  and  give  us  your  opinion." 

Lawrence,  who  had  risen,  sat  down  again  with  a  glance  at 
Joanna's  averted  profile,  and  the  letter  was  read  out. 

It  offered  Joanna  her  first  chance  of  earning  money. 

A  friend  of  the  Lovatt's  the  manager  of  a  leading  Glasgow 
drapery  firm,  was  making  a  new  departure.  He  wanted  some- 
thing fresh  in  the  way  of  catalogues,  frontispieces,  and  adver- 
tisements generally.  Designs  were  to  be  submitted.  Here 
was  the  chance  for  young  talent.  Did  the  Lovatts  know  of  any? 

"  If  you  think  I'm  good  enough,"  said  Joanna  more  than 
doubtfully  when  Mildred  had  finished.  It  was  indeed  what 
she  had  longed  for — the  first  step  towards  that  independent 
life  in  London  which  was  her  dream.  Yet  the  actual  sugges- 
tion filled  her  chiefly  with  the  terrified  sense  of  incompetence. 
It  seemed  absurd  that  work  of  hers  would  be  thought  fit 
for  reproduction  and  payment.  How  she  must  have  imposed 
on  people  that  such  an  idea  should  be  for  a  moment  consid- 
ered !  Now  they  would  find  her  out. 

Yet  she  knew  she  would  try. 

"Why  of  course  you  are  good  enough,"  Mildred  encour- 
aged her.  "  And  I  hope  for  one  design  you'll  send  that  nice 
thing  you  were  working  on  the  other  day — women  dancing — 
I  was  so  struck  with  it!  I  don't  wonder  Val  Plummer  says 
you  have  a  feeling  for  drapery." 

"  What  is  more,  Nilsson  says  the  same,"  put  in  Lawrence, 
glowing  with  satisfaction,  and  Joanna  was  reminded  by  his  re- 
mark that  in  the  three  weeks  since  the  dance,  the  two,  intro- 
duced by  her,  had  become  good  friends. 

So  it  was  arranged,  and  Joanna  found  that  she  had  agreed 
to  send  in  six  designs  by  a  given  time.  After  all,  she  told 
herself,  if  she  failed  she  could  kill  herself! 

In  spite  of  her  disappointment  about  Fender,  of  whom  no 
word  had  been  spoken,  she  trod  home  that  afternoon  on  air. 


According  to  her  promise,  Joanna  set  out  for  the  Urquharts 
on  the  following  Thursday  afternoon:  but  she  grudged  the 
time.  Her  designs  were  going  to  take  even  longer  than  she 
had  expected,  and  she  was  aghast  at  the  unfinished  and  feeble 


184  OPEN   THE    DOOR 

appearance  of  work  which  unchallenged  had  pleased  her  a 
month  before. 

The  widow,  whose  only  child  Lawrence  was,  lived  in  a  small 
top  flat  near  the  Boyds  in  North  Kelvinside.  On  her  way 
there  therefore,  Joanna  had  to  cross  the  high  bridge  which 
for  her  would  always  be  associated  with  Bob  Ranken,  and  then 
she  had  to  pass  the  steps  where  four  years  ago  she  and  Bob 
had  parted. 

When  she  came  to  the  bridge,  to  her  surprise  a  slight 
trembling  seized  her.  Far  behind  and  done  with  was  that  ex- 
perience, yet  the  peculiar  misery  of  it  still  remained  quick, 
and  as  it  were  ambushed  to  spring  out  hurtfully  upon  her 
at  the  touch  of  memory.  Why  was  it?  Why  was  it  that 
there  was  no  such  quality  of  torture — of  canker  almost — in 
her  memories,  so  much  more  tragic,  of  Mario? 

For  a  moment  she  leaned  on  the  parapet  where  she  and 
Bob  had  once  stood,  calling  themselves  lovers:  and  in  that 
moment,  more  clearly  than  by  spoken  word,  the  truth  of 
that  past  emotion  was  made  known  to  her. 

How  she  had  lied  to  herself  and  to  Bob!  How  sick  she 
had  been  with  self-love!  Why,  she  had  merely  invented  him 
as  a  lover  to  meet  her  need;  had  cared  only  for  her  own  in- 
vention, never  a  scrap  for  the  living  man  she  had  used  there- 
for. Now  she  was  open-eyed  and  ashamed.  Bob  had  been 
more  honest  than  she.  He  had  at  least  been  struggling  amid 
the  bewilderment  of  his  blood  towards  a  truthful  attitude. 
If  only  he  could  have  pierced  clean  through  all  her  pretences, 
they  might  have  emerged  together,  achieving  real  contact. 
As  it  was,  she  was  thankful  for  the  bitter  and  humiliating 
knowledge  that  had  come  to  her  at  length,  and  she  was  grate- 
ful to  Bob  for  his  part  in  it.  Now  that  she  knew,  the  venom 
was  gone  from  the  memory.  For  her  there  would  be  no 
decking  of  altars  to  sweet  first  love.  The  dead  branch  could 
be  ruthlessly  lopped  off. 

And  she  did  not  regret.  Even  her  falseness,  she  did  not 
regret.  No ! 

She  gazed  down  on  the  full,  brown  February  flood.  The 
last  pieces  of  ice  were  breaking  from  the  banks,  and  being 
jostled  in  mid-current  among  torn  branches  of  trees.  Al- 
though a  spring  thaw  had  set  in,  many  of  the  rhododendron 
bushes  were  still  covered  with  hoar-frost.  On  some  bushes 
the  folded  leaves  hung  down  like  the  lop-ears  of  a  hare; 


OPENTHEDOOR  185 

on  others  they  were  cocked  up  in  tufts  like  the  feathers  of  a 
field-marshal's  hat.  Everywhere  the  evergreen  bushes  flou- 
rished, hardy  and  rank,  and  between  them  rushed  the  swollen, 
headlong  water. 

Ah!  How  remorselessly  the  stream  swept  away  all  the 
debris  of  winter  it  could  reach!  As  Joanna  watched  it  in 
fascination  she  was  one  with  it,  and  she  rejoiced.  Her  life — 
was  it  not  as  that  flood?  Was  it  not  muddy,  littered,  unlike 
the  life  she  would  have  imagined  or  chosen?  But  it  was 
a  life.  It  moved.  It  possessed  the  impulse,  the  impetus,  the 
inner  fount  of  desire — not  of  mere  detached  wishes  that  suc- 
ceed each  other  capriciously,  but  of  desire  that  springs  from 
some  undiscoverable  source,  and  is  imperious  as  the  waters 
in  spring-time.  If  only  she  had  the  courage  to  obey  her  true 
desire  always,  would  she  not  be  purged  ultimately  of  all  her 
falseness?  This  at  least  was  her  scarcely  articulate  faith. 

At  the  Urquharts,  a  charwoman,  disguised  against  her  will  as 
a  housemaid,  admitted  Joanna  and  led  the  way  stealthily 
down  a  long,  dark  and  stuffy  passage.  Even  in  the  dark- 
ness the  solid  tastelessness  of  the  dwelling  was  made  known, 
and  there  were  many  traces  of  that  kind  of  careful  spirit 
(as  different  from  simple  thrift! ness  as  from  poverty)  which 
cannot  endure  to  let  outward  show  correspond  with  reduced 
circumstances. 

At  the  far  end  of  the  passage  they  came  to  the  dining-room, 
and  as  she  entered,  Joanna's  sense  of  oppression  was  increased 
by  the  sight  of  a  lar  ;e  table,  spread  (solely,  as  it  seemed,  in 
her  honor)  with  so  many  specimens  of  tea-bread  that  it 
looked  like  an  exhibition  of  bakery.  She  could  not  have  told 
why,  but  the  plated  tea-baskets  at  the  corners,  the  great 
abundance  of  rock-cakes,  the  tall,  forbidding  tea-pot  on  its 
beaded  mat,  and  the  chairs  of  horse-hair  and  very  ruddy  ma- 
hogany which  had  been  pushed  up  to  the  damask,  did  un- 
doubtedly combine  rather  in  the  cold  effort  to  defy  criticism 
than  in  any  spontaneous  hospitality. 

But  as  Mrs.  Urquhart  crossed  the  room  to  greet  her,  Joanna 
was  fully  enlightened.  Here  was  the  source  of  suffocation 
in  the  house.  Here  in  this  woman  with  the  large,  pale  face, 
the  beautiful  snow-white  hair,  of  an  astonishing  thickness 
(at  one  time  no  doubt,  black  like  her  son's),  and  the  great, 
cashmere  bosom,  surmounted  by  a  heavy,  gold  brooch  like 


1 86 

a  snake  coiled  and  knotted.  In  her  large,  comely  whiteness, 
Mrs.  Urquhart  seemed  to  Joanna  to  absorb  light  and  oxygen, 
as  might  some  powerfully  succulent  plant.  Anything  staying 
beside  her  for  long,  must  surely  yield  up  its  share  and  lang- 
uish. Though  one  of  the  two  windows  was  open  at  the  top, 
Joanna  could  have  cried  out  for  air  as  her  hostess  bore  down 
upon  her. 

Not  that  Lawrence's  mother  was  not  smiling,  even  gushing 
in  her  manner.  In  talking  she  frequently  leaned  her  body 
towards  Joanna's  with  an  enveloping  movement  clearly  meant 
to  convey  an  impression  of  quite  remarkable  warmth.  Each 
time  this  happened  it  is  true  that  Joanna  found  herself  draw- 
ing back  with  instinctive  hostility:  but  whenever  she  had 
done  so,  she  was  somehow  made  to  feel  herself  in  the 
wrong. 

"  What !  I  give  such  a  hearty  welcome  to  my  son's  guest, 
and  this  is  all  the  thanks  I  get!  "  Mrs.  Urquhart  seemed  to 
say. 

Aloud,  she  was  making  the  ordinary,  polite  enquiries  after 
Mrs.  Bannerman's  well-being.  But  here  again,  her  words  and 
the  impression  she  conveyed  were  two  very  different  things; 
and  Joanna,  though  she  struggled  against  it,  understood  at 
once  that  in  the  speaker's  estimation,  her  mother  was  a  highly 
ridiculous  and  eccentric  person. 

"  I  had  a  great  admiration,"  continued  Mrs.  Urquhart, — 

"  a  very  great  admiration  for  your  dear  father,  Mrs. you 

must  excuse  me,  I  have  never  grasped  your  married  name." 

Joanna  informed  her,  and  flushing  rather  from  annoyance 
than  from  shyness,  begged  to  be  addressed  by  her  Christian 
name.  Her  requests  came  automatically,  simply  because  it 
was  expected  of  her,  and  even  as  it  crossed  her  lips  she  knew 
she  was  being  bullied  by  this  heavy,  white  woman.  She  was 
sure  that  the  excuse  about  her  surname  was  untrue.  Yet 
was  it  not  all  friendliness  on  Mrs.  Urquhart's  part? 

"  Yes,  I  admired  Father,"  repeated  the  elder  woman,  ex- 
uding a  geniality  which  was  falsified  by  the  little,  calculating, 
fixed  eyes.  "  I  worked  with  him  many  a  day  at  the  Foundry 
Boys  and  the  Children's  Dinner  Table;  and  when  my  boy  told 
me  you  were  coming  to  tea,  I  was  glad  to  welcome  you  for 
Father's  sake.  No  man  in  Glasgow,  I  have  always  said,  was 
more  respected.  And  so  handsome  too:  and  a  smile  for 
every  one.  Lawrence  had  an  idea  that  you  had  his  features 


OPEN   THE    DOOR  187 

but  I  cannot  say  I  see  it.  No:  to  my  way  of  thinking  you 
favor  your  mother." 

Joanna  having  nothing  else  to  say  felt  she  must  thank  her 
hostess  at  this  point  for  having  so  kindly  invited  her. 

"  Not  at  all,"  was  the  rejoinder.  "  Lawrence  will  tell  you 
I  make  all  his  friends  welcome  as  far  as  my  means  permit. 
I  was  always  one  to  let  the  boy  choose  his  own  companions, 
and  I  encourage  him  to  bring  them  to  the  house.  It  cannot 
be  said  of  me,  as  of  some  mothers,  that  I  grudge  any  innocent 
pleasure  to  the  young  folks.  If  only  Lawrence  appreciated 
this.  But  you  would  wonder  at  how  many  of  his  evenings  he 
spends  with  friends  Mother  never  sees." 

As  some  response  to  this  was  expected,  Joanna  supposed 
at  random  that  Lawrence  had  to  see  such  friends  in  connection 
with  his  work. 

"  He  seems  to  be  a  worker,"  she  said  with  an  attempt  to 
brighten  things  up.  She  resented  being  forced  thus  into  the 
position  of  Lawrence's  defender:  but  it  was  true  that  she 
credited  him  with  tenacity. 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear  it." 

The  mother  spoke  these  words  in  such  a  curious  tone  that 
Joanna  looked  full  at  her.  But  she  looked  away  again  in 
distaste  of  what  she  saw. 

"  I  suppose  he  has  told  you,"  Mrs.  Urquhart  pursued  "  that 
his  present  fellowship  ends  within  the  year?  " 

Joanna  wished  angrily  that  Lawrence  would  come  and 
interrupt  this  stifling  conversation.  Why  was  he  not  there? 
Was  there  a  purpose  in  his  absence?  But  while  she  longed 
to  disclaim  any  knowledge  whatever  of  his  affairs,  she  found 
herself  speaking  against  her  will  of  the  thesis  she  knew  Law- 
rence was  just  then  writing  on  some  anthropological  subject 
in  competition  for  the  Hume  Fellowship. 

"Ah!  I'm  glad  he  confides  in  you,  Mrs.  — Joanna,"  said 
Mrs.  Urquhart.  "  Of  course  he  will  have  told  you  of  the  trip 
to  the  continent  he  is  bent  on  taking  shortly  with  this  Mr. 
Nilsson?  " 

"With  Carl  Nilsson?  Really!"  Joanna  exclaimed,  now 
with  genuine  pleasure.  "  How  I  envy  your  son!  I'm  sure 
no  one  could  be  a  more  perfect  travelling  companion  than  Carl. 
I'm  so  glad.  It  was  I  who  introduced  them  to  each  other, 
you  know." 

It  would  not  be  true  to  say  there  was  no  ring  of  defiance  in 


188  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

Joanna's  enthusiasm;  and  the  sense  of  conflict  between  the 
two  women  increased. 

"  I  haven't  a  word  to  say  against  Mr.  Nilsson."  Mrs. 
Urquhart  spoke  in  cold  reproof.  "  I  have  never  met  the 
man.  I  merely  hope  he  realizes  that  the  boy's  work  has  to 
come  first.  You,  my  dear,  will  understand  me  when  I  say  it 
is  pure  mother  love  makes  me  so  anxious.  Nothing  must 
distract  Lawrence's  attention  from  his  work  at  present.  You 
have  seen  already  that  I  grudge  him  no  reasonable  pleasure." 

During  this  speech,  and  more  of  the  same  kind  that  fol- 
lowed, Joanna  felt  like  a  fly  which  is  trussed  up  more  and 
more  completely  in  the  scarcely  perceptible  trammels  of  a 
spider,  Great  was  her  relief  when  a  sound  in  the  passage  out- 
side told  of  Lawrence's  arrival. 

Mrs.  Urquhart,  who  had  heard  also,  rose  and  moved  to  make 
the  tea  with  an  agility  surprising  in  one  so  stout. 

"I  always  feel,"  she  concluded,  just  before  her  son  came 
in,  "  that  a  female  friend,  a  little  older  than  himself,  can  have 
such  a  very  steadying  effect  on  a  young  man." 

During  tea,  Lawrence  spoke  and  ate  little  but  he  looked 
more  than  once  from  Joanna  to  his  mother,  and  from  his 
mother  back  again  to  Joanna.  More  than  once  his  mother 
reproached  him  for  his  inattentiveness  in  the  matter  of  hand- 
ing cakes.  But  she  herself  made  up  for  this  by  constantly 
pressing  food  upon  her  guest.  She  was  affronted  when  Joanna 
refused  a  second  kind  of  jam. 

"  Both  preserves  are  home-made,"  declared  the  hostess, 
"  as  I  ought  to  know,  seeing  I  made  them  myself.  But  per- 
haps there  is  some  other  kind  you  would  prefer?  There  is 
apricot  in  the  sideboard." 

Sooner  than  this,  Joanna  yielded  and  helped  herself,  but 
the  food  seemed  to  choke  her. 

To  the  invitation,  sent  by  Juley,  that  she  would  come  one 
day  to  Collessie  Street,  Mrs.  Urquhart  shook  her  head. 

"  I'm  none  too  strong,"  she  said,  ''  with  my  heart,  as  Law- 
rence will  tell  you;  and  could  never  climb  that  terrible  hill 
of  yours.  But  maybe  Mother  could  manage  round  here  one 
of  these  days?  " 

Joanna  replied  that  her  mother  was  no  caller,  either. 

"  But  we  are  flitting  in  May,"  she  added.  "  We  shall  be 
near  here  then.  Yes,"  she  went  on  in  answer  to  a  look  from 
Lawrence,  "  our  house  in  Collessie  Street  is  too  big  for  us 


OPENTHEDOOR  189 

now.  My  brother  Sholto  is  away,  and  before  long  I  hope  to 
get  work  in  London.  So ' 

"  You're  never  going  to  leave  your  mother  alone  again?  " 
interrupted  Mrs.  Urquhart,  while  Lawrence  searched  Joanna's 
face  silently,  so  that  she  wished  she  had  not  spoken. 

"  Not  alone,  Mrs.  Urquhart/'  she  replied  in  a  tone  of  forced 
lightness.  "  There's  Linnet,  my  other  brother,  at  home. 
Besides  I  don't  think  Mother  will  want  always  to  stay  in 
Glasgow.  My  sister  is  in  London.  Why  should  we  not  all 
be  there  together  after  a  few  years?  " 

This  last  idea,  of  a  family  life  in  London,  was  a  protective 
invention  of  the  moment.  It  was  far  enough  in  truth  from 
Joanna's  latest  ambition.  Yet,  affected  as  she  was  by  Law- 
rence's questioning  eyes  so  steadily  set  upon  her,  it  became 
when  once  uttered  a  possibility  to  be  considered. 

"  All  the  same,  what  right,"  she  asked  herself  angrily, 
"  has  he  to  look  at  me  like  that? "  And  with  cheeks 
aflame,  she  continued  to  talk  rapidly  about  the  new  house. 

"  It  is  in  La  France  Quadrant,"  she  exclaimed, — "  just 
opposite, — one  of  the  main-door  flats.  I  believe  you  could 
see  it  from  here."  And  rising  abruptly  she  went  to  the  win- 
dow. She  was  glad  to  turn  away  her  face. 

Lawrence  followed,  and  they  both  stood  looking  across  the 
bushy  gully  of  the  Kelvin. 

"  Yes.  There!  Not  far  from  the  lower  bridge," — Joanna 
showed  him,  pointing,  as  if  her  life  depended  on  it,  with  the 
tip  of  her  fore-finger  pressed  against  the  pane, — "  almost  oppo- 
site the  flint  mill.  Do  you  see  the  yellow  blinds,  three, 
four, — five  windows  beyond  the  lane?  That's  it!  " 

Before  she  left  she  asked  Lawrence  if  he  would  come  to 
Collessie  Street  on  Sunday  afternoon.  Both  her  brothers 
would  be  there,  she  said.  Sholto  was  arriving  from  his  farm 
on  Saturday,  to  stay  at  home  till  his  ship  sailed  for  Australia 
a  fortnight  hence. 

She  invited  him  hoping  that  he  might  refuse;  but  Law- 
rence, looking  simply  glad,  accepted  at  once. 


VI 

That  Friday  a  telegram  was  handed  to  Juley  at  breakfast. 
Telegrams  did  not  make  her  nervous,  but  always  before 
reading  one  she  would  close  her  eyes  and  utter  within  herself 


igo  OPENTHEDOOR 

a  brief  prayer  for  strength,  in  case  it  should  be  God's  will 
to  try  her. 

She  did  so  now,  Linnet  and  Joanna  waiting  impatiently. 

But  immediately  she  had  read,  she  took  off  her  spectacles 
and  her  face  was  irradiated  by  a  tender,  beaming  smile. 

"  Dear,  warm-hearted  Georgie!  "  she  exclaimed,  bright- 
eyed. 

She  read  Georgie's  message  aloud. 

"  Must  join  you  dear  people  and  say  goodbye  darling  Sholto 
arrive  tomorrow  morning  love  Georgie." 

For  a  moment  Joanna's  heart  sank.  How  was  she  to  get 
on  with  her  designs  amid  the  upheaval  of  Georgie's  visit  and 
Sholto's  prolonged  leave-taking?  There  was  always  some- 
thing at  home  to  keep  one  from  working.  Yet  she  too  was 
pleased  at  the  thought  of  the  family  re-union.  She  would 
have  been  disappointed  had  a  second  telegram  came  from 
Georgie  annulling  the  first. 

That  morning,  instead  of  drawing,  she  busied  herself  in  her 
bedroom  making  it  attractive  for  her  sister.  She  cleared 
some  drawers  and  a  space  in  the  wardrobe,  and  spent  more 
than  an  hour  polishing  the  long  neglected  Venetian-glass 
toilet  bottles  with  gilt  filigree  tops,  which  had  been  Madda- 
lena's  wedding  present.  And  in  the  afternoon  she  flung  her- 
self with  ardor  into  the  making  of  several  pairs  of  twilled 
silk  pajamas  she  had  cut  out  many  weeks  ago  as  her  share  of 
Sholto's  new  outfit. 

Feverish  and  half  frenzied  in  her  determination  to  finish 
them  then  and  there,  or  at  the  least  to  have  one  pair  ready  and 
laid  out  on  his  bed  against  Sholto's  arrival,  she  was  still  sit- 
ting over  the  sewing-machine  at  two  in  the  morning. 

"Joanna,  dear,  do  go  to  bed  now!"  remonstrated  her 
mother,  coming  to  the  parlor  door  for  the  third  time  since 
midnight.  "  I'm  sure  you  are  keeping  the  neighbors  awake. 
That  poor  machine  must  need  oiling,  I  think." 

It  was  true:  the  old  treadle  machine  which  Juley  as  a 
bride  had  received  from  Aunt  Georgina,  and  had  felt  as  a 
reproach  (for  she  was  no  seamstress),  was  making  a  clatter  in 
the  quiet,  small  hours,  like  the  clatter  of  a  stony  field  under 
the  harrow. 

But  Joanna,  though  for  some  time  past  she  had  been  finding 
the  noise  hardly  endurable,  spoke  without  stopping  her  work 
or  even  looking  round.  She  merely  slackened  a  very  little. 


OPEN   THE    DOOR  191 

"  Don't  worry  about  me,  Mother,"  she  exclaimed  fractiously 
above  the  rattle  of  the  old  Singer.  "  If  you'd  only  get  to 
bed  yourself  it  would  please  Sholto  and  Georgie  far  better 
than  anything  else  you  could  do.  You  know  it  would.  But 
of  course  you'll  go  on  sitting  up  and  distressing  us  all.  It's 
different  for  me.  I  can  sit  up  for  once.  I  don't  want  to  be 
machining  when  they  are  here.  I  can  finish  the  button-holes 
and  things  while  we  are  talking,  but  I  must  do  the  stitching 
now.  It  won't  take  much  longer. 

The  last  few  words  were  uttered  almost  in  a  shout,  as  the 
girl  set  tearing  off  again  like  mad  upon  a  long  trouser  seam; 
and  the  night  was  filled  with  the  racket. 

For  a  moment  Juley  stood  irresolute  in  the  doorway.  Then 
knowing  by  experience  that  Joanna's  obstinacy  matched  her 
own,  she  went  back  sadly  and  without  another  word  to  her 
writing.  She  was  still  fully-dressed  though  heavy-eyed  and 
weary.  For  hours  she  had  been  struggling  against  sleep  at 
her  desk,  in  the  forlorn  hope,  that  contrary  to  all  knowledge, 
she  might  thus  get  clear  and  have  a  mind  at  leisure  for  her 
son  on  the  morrow. 

But  within  ten  minutes  she  re-appeared  in  the  parlor  with 
a  happier  face.  She  had  brought  some  eatables  upon  a  little 
tray.  These  she  set  down  on  the  edge  of  the  machine  table, 
smiling  ingratiatingly  at  Joanna.  And  Joanna  looked  up  and 
smiled  too  and  stopped  working.  The  night  became  at 
once  blessedly  quiet.  There  were  two  glasses  of  milk,  some 
gingerbread,  a  few  raisins  on  a  saucer,  and  a  small  tin  box 
containing  a  special  kind  •  of  flaked  chocolate  which  Juley 
always  kept  in  a  corner  of  her  desk. 

Mother  and  daughter  ate  almost  in  silence,  but  happy 
together  now  with  a  delicious,  secret  communion  and  acknowl- 
edgment. 

Even  so,  Juley  (in  most  things  generous)  could  not  help 
being  stingy  towards  Joanna  over  the  raisins  and  the  choco- 
late. They  were  always  kept  apart  for  herself  alone  and  were 
sacred  to  her  desk  and  her  midnight  labors. 

In  the  morning  Georgie's  train  arrived  so  punctually  and 
she  took  such  an  unusually  fast  cab,  that  she  was  home 
almost  half  an  hour  before  they  had  counted  on  seeing 
her. 

Joanna,  in  her  chemise  when  she  heard  the  sound  of  wheels, 
and  with  her  hair  still  in  a  dishevelled  plait,  flew  downstairs 


i92  OPEN   THE    DOOR 

without  sparing  the  time  even  to  throw  on  a  dressing-gown. 
On  the  landing,  half-way,  she  ran  into  Linnet. 

He  had  only  that  moment  rolled  out  of  bed,  and  was 
crumpled  all  over,  hardly  awake  yet.  His  fair  dank  hair  which 
no  longer  had  any  tendency  to  curl,  lay  in  ruffled  swathes 
about  his  head,  and  Joanna  was  shocked  by  the  dullness  of 
his  eyes  with  their  blinking,  puffed  lids.  How  little  she  had 
looked  at  Linnet  lately!  What  was  he  doing  with  himself? 
Where  did  his  life  lie?  He  seemed  to  have  so  little  part  in 
the  life  at  home.  But  at  this  moment  Georgie's  arrival  took 
precedence  of  all  these  questions,  and  the  brother  and  sis- 
ter having  exchanged  a  hurried,  nervous  glance,  started  a  race 
down  the  remaining  flight  of  stairs.  Pell-mell  and  laughing 
they  went,  taking  two  steps  at  a  time,  and  they  arrived  to- 
gether panting  just  as  Georgie  threw  down  her  luggage  on  the 
lobby  floor. 

After  the  first  impulsive  hugs,  the  three  stood  chatting, 
overwhelmed  by  a  sudden  shyness  and  uncertainty. 

Joanna  took  an  overcoat  of  Linnet's  from  the  hat-stand  and 
pulled  it  on  over  her  chemise,  snuggling  into  it  with  a  shiver 
for  the  early  morning  air  was  fresh. 

"No!  Sholto  hadn't  come  yet.  .  .  His  train  was  due  in 
about  half  an  hour. — Wouldn't  Georgie  like  a  bath?.  .  .  Had 
she  slept  at  all  on  the  journey? — Surely  that  was  a  new  hat 
she  was  wearing? — But  since  when  had  she  taken  to  veils? — 
Carl  Nilsson  said  veils  were  so  bad  for  the  eyes,  especially 
veils  with  spots  like  that. — But  how  well  Georgie  was  looking, 
wasn't  she? — No,  no!  Not  flatter! — Thinner  on  the  whole!  " 
And  Georgie  declared  that  Joanna  with  her  pig-tail  and  the 
loose,  short-skirted,  tweed  coat,  looked  just  as  she  used  to 
look  at  school. 

"  But,  Linnet,  my  dear  boy,  you  look  awful/  "  exclaimed 
Georgie  turning  to  her  brother  and  pushing  the  spotted  veil 
farther  off  her  eyes.  "  What's  wrong  with  him,  Joanna?  " 
(Georgie  had  that  wounding  habit  of  involving  a  third  per- 
son, a  sort  of  dumb  partner,  in  her  adverse  criticisms.) 

"  Haven't  shaved,  that's  all,"  mumbled  Linnet,  putting  his 
hand  up  to  his  face  defensively.  "  Think  I'll  go  and  have 
a  wash  now."  And  he  moved  away  from  them  and  towards 
the  staircase. 

"  I  hope  you  don't  look  like  that  every  morning  when  you 


OPEN   THE   DOOR  193 

get  up.  Does  he,  Joey?  "  Georgie  called  out  after  him  in 
high  good-humor.  But  just  as  she  was  about  to  hurl  another 
elder-sisterly  gibe,  advising  Linnet  to  eschew  all  shades  of 
mauve  in  his  night  attire,  a  wail  of  distress  came  from  the 
landing  above. 

All  three  young  people  turned  up  their  faces. 

It  was  their  mother.  She  leaned,  in  her  thick,  iron-grey 
dressing  gown,  over  the  bannister  opposite  her  bedroom  door, 
and  was  covering  the  top  of  her  head  with  both  her  hands. 
By  her  voice  they  knew  she  was  almost  weeping. 

"  That  isn't  Georgie!  "  she  cried  reproachfully.  "  No,  Geor- 
gie, I  won't  have  you  coming  up  yet.  You  are  too  early! 
Your  train  isn't  due  yet  by  my  watch,  and  I  put  it  right 
last  night.  Now  that  you  are  here  of  course  it  can't  be  helped: 
but  you  must  wait  till  poor  Mother  puts  her  fichu  on.  You 
children  don't  think!  " 

Having  delivered  herself  Juley  disappeared  into  her  bed- 
room and  shut  the  door  behind  her. 

Georgie  burst  out  laughing. 

"  There's  no  place  like  home!  "  she  averred  delightedly. 
"  Everything  is  always  the  same.  Why  do  I  expect  it  to  be 
different  each  time  I  come  back?  But  what  was  that  Mother 
said  about  a  fichu,  Joanna?  " 

The  younger  sister  explained.  Juley's  hair  had  lately  be- 
come very  thin  upon  the  top.  It  was  difficult  to  dress,  so 
she  had  taken  to  appearing  at  breakfast  with  a  white  net  fichu 
draped  over  her  head,  and  fastened  with  a  brooch  under  her 
chin.  Wearing  this  fichu  (which  not  only  concealed  her  defect 
in  a  becoming  manner  but  postponed  indefinitely  the  daily 
purgatory  before  the  mirror)  Juley  had  seen  herself  greeting 
Georgie  in  the  lobby  with  outstretched  arms,  and  she  was 
utterly  disappointed  at  the  failure  of  her  welcome. 

"  No,  don't  come  in!  "  she  called  out,  though  she  was  half 
laughing  at  herself  now,  as  Georgie  opened  the  bedroom  door. 
But  it  was  no  use,  and  the  next  moment  her  warm  arms 
were  round  her  child. 

Breakfast  was  happy  and  noisy,  and  Joanna,  taking  part, 
but  always  a  little  outside,  thought  that  surely  there  had  never 
been  such  a  pleasant  family  party.  She  longed  only  for 
Sholto  to  join  them.  How  entirely  different  from  any  other 
family  they  were!  Was  there  not  an  atmosphere,  a  charm, 


194  OPENTHEDOOR 

impossible  to  explain?  She  loved  most  of  all  her  mother's 
puzzled  face  when  any  of  them  made  a  joke  she  could  not 
follow. 

The  fichu  was  duly  admired  by  Georgie. 

"  It  makes  you  look  foreign,  Mother,"  she  said,  "like  a 
picture  I  have  seen  somewhere."  And  she  was  right.  The 
simple  drapery,  unspoiled  by  lace,  accentuated  the  breadth 
of  Juley's  abruptly  sloping  forehead,  and  with  her  rather 
prominent,  worn  eyelids  and  her  eyes  of  sad,  but  unquench- 
able enthusiasm,  she  might  well  have  been  one  of  Diirer's 
sacred  women. 

Then  the  dining-room  door  opened  quietly  and  Sholto  ap- 
peared. (Janet,  the  old  cook  had  run  to  let  him  in  before  he 
could  ring  the  bell,  and  she  stood  behind  him  now,  smiling 
proudly  at  them  all.) 

"  Hul-lo,  you  people!  "  he  exclaimed,  in  his  jolly,  rather 
slow,  young  man's  voice;  and  Joanna  felt  warm  and  shy  all 
over.  It  was  only  a  few  months  since  they  had  seen  him  last, 
but  the  sister  easily  forgot  while  he  was  away  that  her  little 
brother  was  a  grown  man  now. 

As  he  stooped  to  kiss  his  mother  she  stroked  his  cheek  with 
earnest  tenderness. 

"  Well,  son?  "  she  said. 

But  the  others  were  all  over  him,  chattering  like  so  many 
daws. 

"  Doesn't  he  look  a  farmer,  just?  " 

Look  at  the  color  of  his  face!  " 

Sholto,  your  neck  is  like  a  bull's!  " 

"  Another  white  pudding  for  Master  Sholto,  please,  Janet," 
ordered  Juley,  smiling,  and  trying  to  make  herself  heard 
above  the  din.  "  Bairns,  bairns,  Mother's  ears  are  splitting!  " 

But  they  paid  no  heed  to  her,  and  as  in  the  old  days  she 
mustered  her  flock  and  was  heartily  proud  of  them.  There 
they  were,  her  "  hens  of  gold,"  and  in  spite  of  all  Eva  Gedge 
might  say  and  might  say  truly,  the  sight  of  them  pleased  her. 

So  she  sat  looking  from  one  to  another,  not  following  nor 
anxious  to  follow  any  of  their  talk. 

Linnet,  shaved  and  dressed,  was  a  different  being.  His 
long,  narrow  face  showed  pale  certainly  beside  his  brother's, 
but  he  was  the  handsomer  of  the  two;  and  those  somewhat 
exhausted  features  of  his,  with  the  very  broad  shoulders,  long 
limbs  and  slender  body  so  like  his  father's,  made  a  fine  gentle- 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  195 

man  of  him.  Sholto,  half  a  head  shorter,  was  stocky  with 
great  thighs  and  calves.  His  features  seemed  still  unfinished, 
but  he  had  frank,  slow-moving  eyes  and  was  lovable.  He 
and  Linnet  chaffed  each  other  with  awkward,  but  observant 
affection. 

As  Joanna  watched  them,  the  thought  of  Lawrence  Urqu- 
hart  cropped  up  in  her  mind.  Why  had  she  asked  him  to 
call  to-morrow?  She  now  had  the  idea  that  her  brothers 
for  some  reason  would  look  down  on  him.  They  would  even 
reckon  the  advantage  they  had  in  being  Academy  boys  while 
Lawrence  had  only  attended  the  High  School.  Georgie  too 
was  always  an  unsparing  critic  of  her  sister's  friends.  She 
had  once  said  that  she  could  not — "  was  very  sorry,  but  simply 
could  not  " — get  over  Phemie  Pringle's  commonness. 

Yet  there  it  was,  Phemie  was  an  artist  and  great  of  soul 
where  Georgie  was  the  vainest  of  amateurs.  And  Lawrence? 
Comparing  him  in  her  secret  mind  with  her  brothers,  Joanna 
felt  him  to  be  of  finer  grain,  more  compact  and  passionate, 
with  more  purpose  hidden  in  him. 

But  when  it  came,  as  it  happened,  his  visit  counted  to 
Joanna  chiefly  because  of  the  piece  of  news  of  which  he  was 
the  bearer. 

Louis  Pender,  Lawrence  was  able  to  tell  her,  was  coming 
back  to  Glasgow  in  a  fortnight.  He  was  coming  on  the  very 
day  Sholto's  boat  was  to  sail.  The  Committee,  after  sharp 
disagreement  had  accepted  two  of  his  designs,  holding  over 
the  others  provisionally. 

It  was  indeed  curious  how  intensely  and  secretly  this  knowl- 
edge infused  itself  amid  the  disturbing  atmosphere  of  Sholto's 
farewell.  It  lurked  for  Joanna  in  every  preparation  for  her 
brother's  departure  and  her  agitation  sought  relief  in  a  fever- 
ish, practical  energy. 

For  this  at  the  moment  there  was  plenty  of  scope.  There 
were,  for  one  thing,  the  nerve-racking  shopping  expeditions 
with  Sholto  and  Juley,  both  impossible  shoppers.  Sholto  so 
hated  any  shop  he  entered  that  he  always  endeavored  to 
escape  without  buying  what  he  had  come  for.  It  could  be 
got  to-morrow,  he  would  say;  or  probably  even  better  in 
Australia  when  he  arrived.  But  Juley,  proceeding  with  a 
slowness  of  mind  and  body  that  was  an  affliction  to  her 
children,  regarded  each  separate  purchase  as  a  campaign  in 
itself.  She  looked  for  advice  of  every  shopman,  explaining 


196  OPENTHEDOOR 

all  the  circumstances  to  him,  with  much  reminiscence  where 
she  was  an  old  customer:  and  in  every  department  she  found 
that  her  son  needed  far  more  than  she  had  at  first  thought 
necessary.  She  strongly  condemned  what  she  called  "  scamp- 
ing ways  of  doing  things,"  and  in  most  of  the  shops  she  con- 
sidered it  would  be  as  well  to  replenish  Linnet's  wardrobe  at 
the  same  time.  It  was  a  real  pleasure  to  be  a  salesman  if  he 
could  confront  Juley  with  an  improvement  or  a  new  invention. 
She  could  be  carried  away  by  an  ingenious  patent  stud. 

Georgie,  on  the  other  hand,  whatever  the  purchase,  had 
always  seen  something  very  much  better  and  more  conven- 
ient, not  to  say  cheaper,  in  London,  and  she  did  not  fail  to 
make  these  reproachful  facts  known  to  the  Glasgow  shop- 
keepers. This  enraged  Sholto,  and  he  depended  on  Joanna  to 
make  things  easier  for  him.  After  that  first  happy  break- 
fast hour,  he  and  Georgie  had  argued  fiercely  about  every- 
thing (particularly  about  politics  and  religion)  and  one  day 
upon  Joanna's  suddenly  taking  Sholto's  side  in  the  discussion 
Georgie  had  burst  into  tears.  It  was  in  the  middle  of  dinner, 
and  Georgie  had  rushed  from  the  room  calling  out  that  no- 
body loved  her  now  at  home,  and  that  she  would  be  glad  to 
get  back  to  London  again.  At  this  Sholto  had  sworn,  Linnet 
had  bolted  his  pudding  and  gone  off  to  one  of  his  eternal  ap- 
pointments, and  Juley  had  sent  Joanna  to  comfort  her  sister 
and  bring  her  back  to  table.  Soon  all  their  nerves  were  on 
edge. 

Amid  all  this  Joanna  found  it  so  hard  to  go  on  with  her 
designs  that  she  almost  gave  up  the  idea  of  sending  them  in. 
But  the  thought  of  Fender  acted  here  as  a  spur.  She  believed 
that  to  be  worthy  of  meeting  him  again  she  must  live  up  to 
the  loftiest  standards  of  duty,  and  this  drove  her  to  the 
desperate  measure  of  early  rising.  Sometimes  too  she  was 
able  for  an  hour  at  a  time  to  take  refuge  in  Nilsson's  studio; 
and  her  lofty  standard,  it  must  be  confessed,  did  not  pre- 
vent her  acceptance  of  all  the  help  he  offered.  In  one  case, 
without  the  least  pang  of  conscience,  she  allowed  him  to  alter  a 
drawing  substantially,  and  in  the  end  her  work  was  handed 
in  well  up  to  time,  just  two  days  before  Sholto's  sailing. 

On  that  Saturday  they  were  a  wretched  little  party  down  at 
the  docks,  waiting  about  four  hours  with  Sholto  already  on 
the  deck  of  the  liner  which  seemed  rooted  to  the  wharf.  It 
appeared  fantastic  to  believe  that  Sholto  was  really  going  to 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  197 

that  place  called.  Australia.  Who  had  been  the  first  to  suggest 
such  a  preposterous  thing?  But  he  was  on  board.  It  was 
done.  Lots  of  other  people  went,  and  their  friends  and 
mothers  were  seeing  them  off  calmly  enough.  They  must  just 
pretend  to  be  like  the  others.  It  was  an  alleviation  that 
Georgie  was  not  there.  (After  all  she  had  returned  to  London 
four  days  earlier.) 

They  all  longed  for  the  liner  to  move,  but  nothing  happened, 
and  nobody  could  give  them  any  definite  information,  except 
that  passengers  must  remain  on  the  ship  and  friends  on  the 
wharf. 

Presently  Linnet  remembered  quite  suddenly  that  though 
it  was  Saturday  he  had  to  call  for  something  at  the  office, 
and  with  a  foolish  wave  of  his  hat  towards  the  liner  he  went 
away.  But  Juley  and  Joanna  stayed  on  and  on,  hanging 
about.  Sometimes  they  walked  up  and  down,  sometimes 
they  rested  on  barrels  or  on  coils  of  rope  till  they  were  chilled 
again  by  the  March  evening.  It  was  horribly  sad,  and  quite 
useless  to  wait.  But  to  have  left  now  would  have  been  like 
shirking  one's  watch  beside  a  dead  body.  It  began  to  grow 
dark.  Lights  were  hoisted  on  the  masts  of  the  ships,  and  here 
and  there  on  the  wharf. 

At  last  a  man  carrying  a  lantern  came  up  to  them  and  told 
that  the  start  had  been  postponed  till  next  morning  early. 
But  all  passengers,  he  said,  must  stay  on  the  ship.  He  prom- 
ised to  deliver  the  farewell  notes  they  now  wrote  to  Sholto. 
When  that  was  done  they  left  the  wharf.  They  were  dropping 
with  fatigue. 

Entering  the  first  eating-house  they  could  find  in  the  dingy 
street  which  led  from  the  docks,  they  were  brought  a  great 
black  pot  of  tea,  piles  of  ready-buttered  bread,  and  a  dish  of 
thick,  briny  bacon  with  eggs.  Though  the  fare  was  rough 
it  was  cleanly  served,  and  Juley  ate  and  drank  greedily.  As 
she  grew  older  and  more  prone  to  exhaustion,  food  seemed  to 
act  more  and  more  quickly  upon  her  as  a  stimulant.  Often 
now  she  would  climb  the  steps  at  home,  so  weary  from  shop- 
ping and  the  steep  hill  that  she  had  to  sink  down  on  one  of 
the  lobby  chairs  with  all  her  parcels  still  in  her  arms.  But 
if  there  was  food  ready  for  her  she  would  devour  it  and  feel 
immediately  revived.  At  the  same  time,  she  always  ate  under 
protest.  She  was  growing  stouter,  becoming  heavy  about  the 
hips,  like  her  elder  sister  Perdy,  but  she  had  not  Perdy's 


i98  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

agility.  She  deplored  her  heaviness  and  tried  to  deny  herself 
starchy  food.  But  if  there  was  or  3  thing  Juley  loved,  it  was 
a  potato.  Early  in  the  meal  she  would  utterly  refuse  to  par- 
take of  that  vegetable.  Then  she  would  declare  for  "  just 
half  a  one,  for  a  treat,  and  not  to  waste  the  gravy  ":  and  after 
that,  when  she  thought  no  one  was  looking,  she  would  help 
herself  to  a  small  quantity  time  after  time.  To  make  up  for 
this  "  sinful  self-indulgence  "  she  would  dose  herself  between 
whiles  with  patent  medicines.  She  had  a  dread  of  internal 
trouble,  especially  of  such  kind  as  would  involve  any  opera- 
tion, but  it  was  illness,  not  death  that  she  feared.  She  was 
quite  ready,  she  said,  when  this  heavy,  fleshly  tabernacle 
should  be  worn  out,  to  go.  She  did  not  wish  to  grow  old  and 
a  burden.  In  speaking  of  Heaven  she  had  still  the  face  of  a 
young  girl. 

But  while  Juley  restored  herself  there  behind  the  wharf, 
recovering  energy  with  each  mouthful  in  the  sordid  little 
shop,  Joanna  could  hardly  touch  anything.  With  mechanical 
persistence  she  kept  trying  to  imagine  the  moving  away  of 
Sholto's  ship  at  dawn,  and  could  not.  She  could  only  see  it 
rooted  there  by  the  wharf  for  ever  and  ever.  It  was  like  a 
nightmare.  She  could  not  believe  in  Australia  nor  in  the 
ship's  power  to  sail  there,  nor  in  Sholto's  continued  existence. 
Really  she  was  delirious  with  exhaustion. 

But  she  was  not  unhappy.  Beneath  the  senseless,  whirring 
of  her  fatigue  there  was  the  knowledge  of  Fender's  coming. 
It  had  been  there  hidden  all  day,  unexamined,  yet  making 
life  endurable.  And  now  it  rose  and  rose,  till  all  her  con- 
sciousness was  suffused  with  it.  Again  and  again  she  looked 
at  the  watch  on  her  wrist,  the  little  gold  watch  with  its 
Milanese  plaited  strap  which  Mario  had  given  her.  "  By 
now,"  she  thought,  "  his  train  has  passed  Carlisle."  "  Per- 
haps he  is  drinking  tea  in  the  restaurant  car."  (As  she  pic- 
tured him  she  could  see  exactly,  though  she  had  never  in 
his  presence  consciously  noticed  it,  the  peculiar  way  in  which 
his  square  fingers  grasped  the  handle  of  a  cup,  and  the  strong 
curve  of  his  wrist  as  the  sleeve  slipped  back  a  little.)  "  By 
now  he  must  be  very  near  Glasgow."  "  He  must  be  gather- 
ing up  his  things."  "  Now,  if  he  has  come  at  all,  he  has 
certainly  arrived."  "  Even  if  the  train  is  later  than  it  ever  is, 
he  must  be  here."  "  Will  Mildred  meet  him,  as  he  is  going 
at  first  to  stay  with  her?  "  "  Or  will  he  leave  the  station  alone 


O  P  E  N   T  H  E  D  O  O  R  199 

in  a  cab?  "  "  How  long  will  be  stay  at  Panmure  Crescent 
before  going  to  the  studio-cottage  Mildred  is  so  proud  of 
having  found  for  him  at  Carmunnock?  " 

But  what  did  any  of  these  things  matter?  Nothing!  It 
only  mattered  that  after  so  many  weeks  he  was  already  here. 
That  at  this  very  moment  he  was  in  Glasgow.  That  he  was 
breathing  the  same  air  that  she  breathed.  That  some  day 
soon  she  would  see  his  square-fingered  hands,  and  feel  his 
strange,  prominent  eyes  upon  her. 


CHAPTER  IV 


EXACTLY  four  weeks  later,  at  much  the  same  hour  of 
the  day  (although,  the  Spring  being  further  advanced, 
the  sky  had  not  yet  begun  to  make  its  preparations  for  sun- 
set), anyone  walking  across  the  summit  of  Garnet  hill  would 
have  noticed  a  man  who  waited  at  the  street's  highest  point. 
Further,  anyone  of  the  smallest  experience  would  have  known 
that  this  man  waited  there  for  a  woman.  In  his  thick,  but- 
toned-up,  dark  gray  overcoat,  he  stood  in  the  middle  of  the 
roadway,  disdaining  criticism  and  both  pavements,  and  now 
and  then  with  a  movement  half  nervous  and  half  defiant,  he 
adjusted  his  soft,  light  gray  hat  to  an  even  jauntier  angle. 
He  wore  gloves  and  carried  a  stick.  His  very  outline  against 
the  sky  was  suggestive  of  gallantry. 

Since  his  return  to  Glasglow  Louis  Fender  and  Joanna  had 
met  frequently.  They  had  met  at  Panmure  Crescent;  she 
had  come  with  Mildred  to  see  the  Carmunnock  studio  where 
he  was  now  living;  the  Plummers  had  brought  her  to  the 
City  Chambers  to  look  at  the  scaffolding  and  other  prepara- 
tions for  his  work  there.  But  each  of  these  meetings  had  been 
in  the  company  of  others.  Not  since  the  night  of  the  dance 
had  the  two  spoken  alone  together  for  more  than  a  few  scanty 
seconds;  and  not  till  the  day  before  this  May  afternoon  had 
Louis  found  an  opportunity  to  suggest  the  kind  of  meeting 
for  which  he  was  now  waiting.  It  had  been  in  obedience  to 
circumstance  the  merest  tentative  suggestion  of  an  appoint- 
ment on  his  part,  and  without  ratification  on  hers,  so  as  he 
stood  there  on  the  hill  he  was  agitated  by  a  pleasant,  boyish 
nervousness.  Experience,  however,  bade  him  hope,  as  also 
did  his  shrewd  reading  of  Joanna's  character.  He  had  lost 
no  time  in  learning  her  story  from  Mildred,  and  judged 
rightly  that  she  had  reckless  blood. 

But  would  she  come?  It  was  not  in  Pender's  nature  to  be 
fatuous  in  these  matters,  and  he  held,  in  spite  of  a  fair  share 
of  conquests,  a  really  low  estimate  of  his  own  attractiveness. 

200 


OPENTHEDOOR  201 

When  six  o'clock  struck,  and  there  was  no  sign  of  the  young 
woman  for  whose  appearance  he  owned  to  a  surprising  hunger, 
he  mildly  cursed  himself  for  a  middle-aged  fool.  Another 
quarter  of  an  hour  he  would  wait,  he  decided,  and  no  longer. 
And  with  a  superstitious  notion  that  his  too  eager  looking 
might  foil  its  own  end,  he  turned  his  back  on  the  direction 
from  which  the  nymph  might  most  reasonably  be  expected 
to  come. 

At  least,  thought  he  then — being  forty-seven  and  having 
survived  many  excitements  and  disappointments — he  might 
enjoy  the  extraordinary,  mounting  beauty  of  the  evening 
about  him.  Perhaps  after  all  it  was  only  in  cities  of  the  North 
that  one  got  such  a  voluptuous  contrast  and  harmony  as  now 
presented  itself  to  his  gaze!  Above,  the  stony,  clear  austerity 
of  the  town  curved  the  sky.  It  curved,  holding  its  fill  of 
light,  ebullient,  like  a  bubble  of  serenest  blue;  and  forming 
that  bubble's  tumultuous  outer  rim  were  the  piled-up,  yellow, 
flamboyant  clouds  whose  huge  tops  seemed  on  a  level  with 
Fender's  admiring  eyes. 

A  month  ago  he  would  not  have  believed  it  possible  to 
find  himself  so  charmed  in  this  dismal  hole  of  a  place  called 
Glasglow.  But  neither  would  he  a  month  ago  have  credited 
himself  with  any  interest  in  a  woman  so  strong  as  he  now  felt. 
It  had  surprised  him  during  his  stay  in  London  tha  Joanna's 
image  had  persisted.  Perhaps  it  had  still  more  surprised 
him  on  his  return  to  find  no  waning  in  her  appeal.  It  was  odd, 
he  mused,  that  he  should  run  across  this  girl  just  when  he 
fancied  himself  done  with  amorous  interludes.  Odd,  too,  that 
she  should  be  so  different  in  type  from  the  women  he  had  gone 
after  hitherto.  He  had  always  admired  short-featured  women 
with  square  jaws,  and  strongly  marked  cheek-bones,  women 
who  carried  their  own  shadows  about  with  them.  And  here 
was  one  who  was  at  the  mercy  of  every  variation  of  light. 
He  was  not  even  sure  that  he  admired  her.  She  certainly 
troubled  him. 

But  anyhow,  confound  her,  she  wasn't  coming!  It  was  a 
quarter  past  six.  He  was  tired  of  studying  the  buoyant  out- 
lines of  those  yellow  clouds.  He  would  wait  only  five  minutes 
more.  A  woman  came  punctually  to  a  first  appointment  or 
not  at  all. 

And  while  Louis  waited  there,  a  stone's  throw  from  the 
Bannermans'  house,  Joanna  had  been  looking  despairingly 


202  OPENTHEDOOR 

for  him  at  the  far  end  of  the  hill,  low  down  and  out  of  sight, 
some  hundred  yards  away. 

It  was  her  nature  to  think  that  she  must  always  be  the  one 
who  had  the  more  trouble  to  take,  the  longer  way  to  travel: 
so  she  had  stayed  there  a  full  ten  minutes  before  it  struck 
her  that  he  might  possibly  have  meant  the  corner  nearest 
her  home.  "  The  corner  of  Dunbar  Street,"  he  had  said 
ambiguously. 

Now  she  became  certain  that  he  had  been  at  the  other 
corner  all  the  while  and  that  she  would  find  him  gone. 

She  ran  all  the  way  up  the  long  hill.     She  had  no  hope. 

But  there  he  was!  There  on  the  topmost  joint  of  the 
gray  stone  ridge.  He  was  standing  with  his  back  to  her, 
still  as  a  stone  man  against  the  sky.  Only  the  ends  of  his 
loose  tweed  coat  flapped  a  little  in  the  air. 

The  instant  she  saw  him  Joanna  stopped  running.  She 
must  recover  her  breath.  So  she  went  on  at  a  walking  pace, 
and  it  was  an  astonishment  to  her  that  she  was  still  able  to 
advance,  to  place  one  foot  regularly  before  another  on  the 
granite  setts  of  the- hill.  For  the  sight  of  him  there,  waiting 
with  such  patience  for  her  so  long  after  the  time  appointed, 
had  a  violent  effect  upon  her  knees. 

Then  before  she  had  walked  a  dozen  more  steps  towards 
him  Louis  turned  his  head  and  saw  her,  and  the  next  moment 
they  had  met.  They  looked  into  each  other's  eyes  with  a 
first  swift  searching,  as  their  hands  clasped  firmly. 

"  You  have  come,"  said  he.  "  I  had  almost  given  you 
up." 

While  she  explained  her  mistake  and  he  blamed  himself, 
neither  listening  to  the  other's  words,  they  turned  towards  the 
now  setting  sun  and  with  the  strong  glow  of  it  full  in  their 
faces  began  to  walk  downhill. 

Until  the  first  breathlessness  of  their  meeting  had  subsided 
they  could  only  make  superficial  conversation.  Louis  pointed 
out  to  his  companion  that  with  the  sun  so  low  now  in  the  sky, 
all  the  color  in  the  world  lay  behind  them  to  the  East,  and 
he  had  to  make  her  turn  round  several  times  before  he  could 
convince  her.  But  really,  while  they  argued  with  vehement 
lightness,  each  was  groping  under  every  tone  and  movement 
and  all  the  flurry  of  sensual  excitement  for  the  truth  of  the 
other. 


OPENTHEDOOR  203 

The  region  through  which  they  were  now  walking  was  for 
Joanna  full  of  childish  memories,  which  in  a  curious  way  added 
to  her  excitement.  They  had  passed  the  dark  Synagogue 
with  its  dome,  the  Salvation  Army  Shelter,  which  had  once 
been  a  little  farm-house  and  still  stood  in  its  blackened  garden, 
and  the  smart  new  Cancer  Hospital  built  of  garish,  red  stone. 
And  on  the  other  sic1?  ran  fine,  dismal,  old  family  dwellings 
with  porticoes  and  high,  square-paned  windows  which  now 
sheltered  obscure  mantle-makers,  cheap  teachers  of  elocution, 
and  theatrical  landladies.  It  was  one  of  these  houses  which  had 
been  old  Horatio  Bannerman's  manse  in  the  early  days. 

But  Louis  looked  about  him  with  a  little  shudder  of  distaste. 

"  How  very  depressing  all  this  is!  "  he  said. 

When  Joanna  could  not  help  championing  it,  he  looked  at 
her  with  a  warm  amused  smile,  which  faded  however  when 
she  asked  him  rather  timidly  about  his  own  childhood. 

"  I  can't  remember,"  he  replied  emptily.  "  It's  queer 
how  little  I  can  remember.  I  don't  think  it  particularly 
interested  me  being  a  child." 

That  Joanna  could  not  understand. 

"  I  remember  everything — everything/ "  she  told  him, 
wondering. 

"  Well,  for  one  thing  you  aren't  so  far  from  your  child- 
hood as  I  am,"  Louis  replied,  speaking  in  a  certain  light  tone 
which  gave  his  companion  a  peculiar  sense  of  unhappiness. 
"  That  makes  a  difference,  you  know.  Wait  till  you  are  my 
age." 

"  No,  no!  I'll  remember  till  I'm  dead."  It  was  almost  as 
if  she  warded  off  a  blow. 

"  Not  the  disagreeable  things,  surely?  Or  were  you  always 
happy  as  a  child?  "  he  asked,  looking  at  her.  He  was  not 
interested  in  their  talk,  nor  in  what  she  was  about  to  say: 
but  he  liked  to  see  her  face  thus  serious.  She  looked  now,  he 
thought,  like  an  early  Gothic  Madonna,  rather  faultily  carved 
perhaps,  but  with  inspiration. 

"  No,  I  wasn't."  Joanna  looked  at'  him  in  return.  "  But 
I  like  to  remember,  even  the  unhappy  things.  They  seem 
part  of  it  all,  part  of  me.  I  couldn't  bear  to  forget.  It 
would  be  like  losing  bits  of  myself." 

"  Oh,  come!  That's  morbid,  I  consider.  I  prefer  to  be 
like  the  sundial  and  '  reckon  none  but  sunny  hours,'  or  what- 


204  OPEN   THE    DOOR 

ever  the  exact  words  may  be.  Anything  unhappy  or  dull  or 
painful  I  make  haste  to  forget.  I  assure  you  it  is  an  excellent 
habit." 

Joanna  shook  her  head.  All  that  he  had  said  was  hurtful, 
full  of  death  to  her,  but  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  explain 
either  to  him  or  to  herself  why  it  was  so. 

"  I'm  not  like  that,"  was  all  she  could  say.  She  spoke, 
however,  with  a  stoutness  that  was  pleasing  to  him.  He  was 
curiously  moved  by  this  woman's  egoism,  grateful  for  her 
absurd  seriousness. 

"  Then  we  are  different,  you  and  I,"  he  said  gently,  and  he 
smiled  full  at  her,  charming  her  suddenly,  winning  her  with 
what  she  felt  to  be  a  rare  tenderness. 

"  But,"  he  went  on,  in  a  different  voice  and  with  a  light 
in  his  eyes  that  was  purely  predatory,  "  111  tell  you  some- 
thing I  shall  never  forget  to  my  dying  day.  And  that  is  the 
first  moment  I  set  eyes  on  you  that  evening  at  the  Lovatts." 

Joanna,  in  bliss,  remained  silent. 

"  Neither  shall  I  forget,"  Louis  resumed,  "  seeing  you  dance 
the  reel  up  at  the  School.  These,  you  see,  are  the  kind  of 
things  I  remember  and  want  to  remember.  Do  you  know 
what  I  was  doing  up  on  the  hill  there  while  I  was  waiting  for 
you?  " 

"  No." 

"  Try  to  guess." 

"  Perhaps  remembering  other  times  you  had  waited  for 
a  woman?  "  she  said. 

Louis  laughed  with  enjoyment. 

No,  Mrs.  Clever,  and  I  wasn't.  I  was  trying  to  draw  the 
lines  of  your  face  from  memory  against  the  sky  as  if  it  were 
a  canvas." 

Again  Joanna  had  nothing  to  say. 

"  If  you  don't  like  me  to  tell  you  such  things,  Signora 
Rasponi,"  he  continued,  "  mind  you  tell  me  to  stop." 

He  had  got  her  to  look  at  him  again,  and  again  she  spoke 
with  that  stoutness  of  .hers  that  so  pleased  and  tickled  him. 

"  I  like  it,"  she  said. 

Louis  was  really  amused  by  her,  refreshed,  and  at  the  same 
time  he  could  not  quite  make  her  out. 

When  they  had  got  to  the  bottom  of  the  steep  hill  and  were 
walking  on  the  level,  still  westwards,  he  began  to  talk  to  her 
about  his  work. 


OPENTHEDOOR  205 

"  I  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  myself," — he  spoke  with  im- 
patience, almost  disgust — "  at  being  so  pleased  over  this  two- 
penny-halfpenny commission.  Why,  by  this  time  of  day, 
people  ought  to  be  begging  and  praying  me  all  over  the  place 
to  paint  their  walls.  But  they  don't,  you  know!  And  here  am 
I,  as  bucked  as  if  I  were  a  pavement  artist  at  being  rather 
reluctantly  asked  to  add  my  daub  to  the  other  daubs  in  that 
ghastly,  chocolate-colored  building  you  Glasgow  people  are  so 
proud  of.  You'll  admit,  I  hope,  that  it  is  a  beastly  pile?  " 

"  It  is  ugly,  I  suppose."  Joanna  conceded.  Yet  she  _re- 
membered  the  rich  and  splendid  vision  it  had  been  to  her  as 
a  child  when  her  father  had  taken  them  all  to  receptions  up 
its  alabaster  staircase. 

"I've  no  doubt,  however,"  added  her  companion,  "  that 
it  will  be  uglier  still  when  I  have  contributed  my  own  particular 
piece  of  ugliness  to  it." 

His  self-aspersion  was  wounding  as  an  insult.  Why  did 
he  give  her  ground  to  stand  upon  and  then  take  it  back  from 
under  her  feet?  Had  he  himself  no  foothold?  He  seemed 
continually  to  lead  her  along  a  sure  path,  only  to  leave  her 
with  a  flippant  gesture  at  the  edge  of  a  precipice. 

"  I  am  no  longer  pleased  with  my  drawing  for  the  panel," 
he  went  on  restlessly.  "  The  lunette  is  well  enough.  But 
the  panel,  I  now  see,  is  rubbish  or  nearly  so.  I  am  altering  it. 
The  Committee  will  have  to  like  the  change  or  lump  it. 

"  I  thought  it  so  lovely,"  said  Joanna. 

"  Very  nice  of  you:  but  unhappily  your  kind  thoughts, 
my  child,  don't  affect  the  design,"  said  Louis.  "  No.  _The 
thing  isn't  good  and  it  has  got  to  be  altered  or  not  done  at 
all.  But  for  God's  sake  let  us  talk  of  something  else.  Tell 
me — "  he  asked,  pointing  to  a  new,  still  unoccupied  block 
of  flats  they  were  now  passing — "  why  do  you  build  so  much 
up  here  with  that  red  stone?  I  don't  like  it,  do  you?  It 
always  stays  so  raw  looking — on  a  wet  day  almost  bleeding. 
But  let's  have  a  look  at  the  inside  of  this,  shall  we?  See 
the  doors  are  not  on  yet.  Come.  Do  let  us!  " 

Eager  as  a  child,  Louis  led  the  way  across  a  bridge  of 
planks  left  by  the  workmen  at  the  entrance.  The  building 
was  finished  all  but  the  fittings,  and  now  awaited  the  glaziers 
and  paper-hangers. 

Joanna  followed  him  up  the  stairs  which  were  littered 
with  shavings  and  rubble.  His  swift  transitions  of  mood 


206  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

affected  her  painfully,  but  she  became  calmer  as  they  mounted 
from  floor  to  floor  and  examined  the  rooms  of  the  various 
dwellings-to-be. 

"  I  think  we'll  make  this  the  drawing-room.  Or  do  you 
think  the  nursery,  my  dear?  "  Louis  asked  her,  play  acting. 

Joanna,  being  no  actress,  could  not  respond  in  the  same 
vein,  but  she  stood  laughing  at  him,  happy  again,  and  watching 
him,  with  a  curious,  maternal  tenderness  as  she  listened  to 
his  easy  flow  of  nonsense. 

Suddenly  he  broke  off  and  came  nearer  to  her. 

"  By  God,  I  wish  it  were  all  true,"  he  said  very  seriously. 
"  You  look  so  lovely  in  this  light  standing  there  smiling  at 
me  with  your  eyes  shining.  I  wish  I  could  live  with  you. 
Would  you  like  to  live  with  me?  Say  you  would,  just  to 
please  me." 

Joanna  remained  quite  still. 

"  You  must  not  say  such  things  to  me." 

"Why   not?" 

"  For  one  thing,  there's  your  wife." 

"  There's  my  wife,  yes.    Shall  I  tell  you  about  her?  " 

Joanna's  eyes  widened  as  he  stared  into  them  defiantly. 
And  her  heart  leapt.  She  had  felt  from  the  first  that  Fender's 
wife  did  not  essentially  matter.  Now  she  was  sure  of  it. 

"  If  you  like,"  she  said,  and  waited. 

"  Well,  I  think  you  may  understand.  Anyhow  this  is  how 
things  are,"  he  said.  "  I  married  when  I  was  twenty-three. 
Alice  was  a  little  older,  not  much.  The  boys  were  born  the 
first  year.  They  are  twins  you  know  and  their  mother  pretty 
nearly  died  with  them.  When  she  got  better  she  couldn't 
bear  me  to  come  near  her.  That  kind  of  physical  terror  is 
common  enough,  as  perhaps  you  know,  but  at  the  time  it 
was  a  fearful  blow  to  me.  We  went  on  of  course,  thinking 
it  would  pass,  even  in  time  thinking  it  had  passed.  But  it 
hadn't,  and  somehow  the  bottom  was  knocked  out  of  things. 
I  can't  quite  explain  but  it  was.  Perhaps  we  were  wrong  from 
the  start.  To  do  my  wife  justice  she  recognized  it  as  well  as 
I  did,  and  set  to  work  to  make  the  best  of  it  in  her  own  way 
just  as  I  did  in  mine.  Only  our  ways  were  different.  You 
can  guess  perhaps  what  happened.  Even  under  good  condi- 
tions I  won't  say  I  should  have  made  a  faithful  husband. 
As  it  was  you'll  admit  I  had  at  least  an  excuse.  You'll  say 
I  should  have  left  her.  At  one  time  I  was  very  near  to  it. 


OPEN   THE    DOOR  207 

But  I  didn't,  and  I  can't  honestly  say  I've  regretted  it.  You 
must  remember  she  wanted  me — needed  me,  she  said — in  the 
other  ways.  Then  there  were  always  the  boys.  Somehow 
I  shouldn't  like  to  go  back  on  them;  or  shall  we  say  I  haven't 
yet  found  anything  that  seemed  to  make  it  worth  while  doing 
so?  So  you  see!  " 

During  this  recital  Joanna  had  withdrawn  her  eyes  from 
his,  but  she  could  feel  his  bold,  nervous  stare  while  she  looked 
past  him  and  out  at  the  street  through  the  unglazed  windows. 
The  lamps  were  being  lighted  one  by  one  in  the  dusk.  She 
did  not  to  the  full  realize  the  disbelief  in  himself  which  was 
the  essential  thread  running  through  this  man's  confession: 
she  merely  felt  sad  for  him  and  for  herself. 

"  Do  you  blame  me?  "  he  asked,  longing  for  her  reproach. 

"  Yes.  I  mean,  no.  How  can  I  blame  you?  "  Neither 
at  this  moment  had  Joanna  any  belief.  She  and  he  were  under 
the  same  spell  of  helplessness,  as  if  drugged. 

"  Well  then?  " 

"  Doesn't  your  wife  mind?  "  she  asked,  knowing  it  an  idle 
question. 

"  She  can't  have  it  both  ways,  can  she?  Come.  After  all. 
And  I've  got  to  be  considered  too." 

"  Was  it  Mrs.  Tullis  you  nearly  went  away  with?  " 

"  Yes.    It  was." 

"  I'm  glad  you  didn't." 

"  So  am  I.    By  Heaven  I'm  glad." 

It  was  almost  dark  as  Louis  and  Joanna  walked  in  silence 
up  the  long  semi-circular  slope  to  the  Park.  By  unspoken 
consent  they  had  taken  the  longer  way  to  avoid  passing 
Panmure  Crescent.  And  soon  they  were  crossing  a  wide  de- 
serted circus  of  houses,  making  for  the  highest  gates  of  all. 

"  Walk  a  little  in  front  of  me,"  said  Louis,  falling  be- 
hind. 

"  How  I  like  to  watch  you  move,"  he  told  her  from  there, 
as  he  followed  her  slowly  through  the  gates.  "  I  walk  behind 
and  worship.  I  should  love  above  all  things  to  see  you  walk- 
ing so,  but  quite  naked  in  the  summer  dusk.  Just  so,  between 
these  iron  gates." 

He  spoke  with  such  simplicity  that  Joanna  could  only  re- 
joice in  his  frank  worship.  He  gave  glamor  into  her  keeping. 
Gladly  would  she  have  walked  naked  for  his  delight  in  the 
soft  darkness. 


208  OPENTHEDOOR 

Presently,  when  they  reached  the  great  treble  flight  of  gray 
granite  steps  leading  down  into  the  Park,  Joanna  sat  on  the 
stone  balustrade  and  Louis  stood  beside  her  with  one  foot  on 
the  low  escarpment.  He  took  off  his  hat  welcoming  the  little 
breeze  that  stirred  up  to  them  from  the  river.  There  was  no 
moon,  and  beyond  the  lighted  lamps  on  the  terrace  the  sky 
showed  richly  blue.  In  front  the  faint  regular  lines  of  the 
wide  stairway  descended  into  a  blue  haze:  behind  was  the 
sweeping  curve  of  pavement  and  railing  flanked  by  tall  houses 
with  fretted  roofs. 

Suddenly  Louis  bent  closer  to  Joanna,  kissing  her  without 
a  word  on  the  point  of  her  shoulder,  and  to  her  dismay  she 
broke  down  utterly. 

In  consternation  then  he  sat  by  her  side  to  comfort  her. 

"  I'm  sorry.  Oh,  I'm  sorry,  my  child,  if  I've  offended  or  hurt 
you.  Truly  I  am.  But  what  was  I  to  do?  You  mustn't 
cry  so.  No,  no,  really  you  mustn't.  What  have  I  done?  Now 
do  stop.  Upon  my  soul  if  you  don't  cheer  up  I  shall  be  crying 
myself  directly.  You  know,  you  take  things  altogether  too 
seriously.  Don't  let  us  be  too  serious.  Tell  me  now,  am 
I  to  apologize  or  what?  I'll  do  anything  you  say.  Is  this 
your  way  of  showing  virtuous  indignation?  Come — tell 
me!  " 

"  You  know  it  isn't,"  said  Joanna  wiping  her  eyes  but  un- 
able to  help  smiling  at  him  as  he  bent  forward. 

"  What  then?  " 

"  I  don't  know.    I  suppose  I  love  you." 

Louis  quite  taken  aback  did  not  speak  at  once.  Then  gaz- 
ing up  at  her  sideways  he  gave  her  one  of  his  wonderful  affec- 
tionate looks. 

"  I'm  afraid,  Joanna,  that  you  are  a  fearful  goose,"  he  said, 
using  her  Christian  name  for  the  first  time. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  am,  Louis." 

As  they  looked  into  each  other's  eyes  she  wished  he  would 
take  her. 

"  Never  mind ;  this  light  is  very  becoming  to  you,  my  dear," 
said  Louis,  holding  back,  he  did  not  know  why.  "  In  fact  you 
look  perfectly  lovely  to  me  at  this  moment.  And  see  these 
steps,  and  that  stony  terrace  curving  away  back  so  finely. 
You  might  go  anywhere,  I  tell  you — Italy,  Greece,  anywhere 
you  like:  I  don't  care — you  could  find  nothing  more  beautiful. 
And  at  this  moment  you  seem  to  me  the  most  beautiful  woman 


OPENTHEDOOR  209 

in  the  world.    So  why  be  sad?    Do  let  us,  ah!  do  let  us  be 
happy.    I  so  want  to  be  light  hearted." 

But  he  did  not  kiss  her  again  that  night,  not  even  at  parting. 

ii 

From  that  day,  however,  they  met  constantly,  nor  did  they 
ever  part  without  arranging  a  further  meeting.  Both  were 
quite  careless  of  outside  comment.  They  were  absorbed  in  the 
unending  debate  and  conflict  between  them.  Soon  they  be- 
came lovers  in  all  but  the  final  abandonment,  and  this  was 
never  out  of  their  thoughts. 

Joanna  was  not  happy:  neither  was  she  unhappy.  She  was 
again  undergoing  a  change — a  divestment  of  which  the  mean- 
ing could  not  become  clear  for  her  until  the  process  was  com- 
pleted. Swaddled  from  before  birth  in  religious  emotionalism, 
in  romance  and  spiritual  exaltation,  it  was  natural  that  she 
should  cling  to  these  suffocating  wrappings.  Should  cling,  that 
is,  with  the  conscious  mental  part  of  her,  so  that  as  far  as  she 
was  conscious  she  was  false.  It  had  to  be  so.  She  had  virtue 
on  the  other  hand  in  the  unconscious  but  actual  acceptance 
of  the  changes  that  were  her  fate.  And  the  proof  that  her 
virtue  was  stronger  than  her  falseness  lay  in  the  fact  that  no 
man  she  attracted  could  act  falsely  toward  her.  Punish  them 
she  might,  but  she  drew  the  truth  from  them. 

Thus,  though  it  seemed  monstrous  to  her  at  times  that  all 
the  weight  of  the  decisioa  should  lie  as  it  did  upon  her,  that 
Louis  should  only  talk  and  wait  and  walk  unburdened,  still 
she  knew  it  must  be  so.  Just  because  it  was  she  that  chose 
to  regard  their  love  as  something  final,  she  must  be  the  one  to 
decide. 

Meanwhile  Louis  took  what  he  could  of  her,  fitfully.  He 
continued  to  woo  her  with  the  touches  and  kisses  without 
which  she  would  now  have  found  existence  barren.  But  there 
were  days  when  he  made  as  if  he  would  put  her  away  from  him 
with  words  of  warning  and  farewell.  Again  he  would  declare 
himself  as  fundamentally  lightminded,  telling  her  with  radiant 
amusement  of  his  earlier  affairs,  urging  her  to  throw  aside  the 
foolish  gravity  of  her  nature  and  upbringing,  and  with  him 
to  regard  love  as  the  most  charming  and  recreative  of  pas- 
times. 

Not  for  any  length  of  time  could  Joanna  retain  this  view. 
But  it  had  a  strong  appeal  for  her,  the  more  that  it  discovered 


210  OPEN    THE    DOOR 

clearly  in  her  the  longing  to  compete  on  their  own  ground 
with  the  unknown,  fascinating  women  of  whom  Louis  told 
her.  Once  she  had  held  all  such  women  to  be  inconsiderable. 
But  she  had  seen  them  afresh  through  her  lover's  eyes.  She 
must  match  her  powers  against  theirs,  must  commit  herself 
to  the  test  instead  of  scorning  it,  to  prove  her  greater  worth 
if  it  existed.  She  still  believed  she  could  outdo  them  in  weav- 
ing a  spell  for  Louis,  and  passionately  she  coveted  his  acknow- 
ledgement of  this.  In  every  mood,  serious  or  light,  she  felt 
sure  that  she  could  keep  his  respect.  Unhappiness,  she  ex- 
pected, but  never  the  unhappiness  of  his  scorn.  And  like  her 
Aunt  Perdy  she  could  summon  an  elation  for  pure  disaster. 

So  everything  pushed  her  towards  Louis,  everything,  that 
is  within  herself.  But  in  him  there  was  that  which  long 
kept  her  from  yielding.  It  was  something  immovable  in  him, 
against  which  she  hurled  herself  without  understanding.  Always 
she  waited  for  some  change  in  him  that  never  came.  But  he 
remained  staunch  to  himself  and  so  in  the  long  run  to  her. 

"  Surely  there  are  two  things,"  she  said  to  him  one  day, 
"  there's  love,  and  there's  the  other  thing?  " 

Louis  turned  his  head  to  look  at  her,  and  smiled  as  if 
valuing  her  earnestness  even  while  he  laughed  at  it.  It  was 
a  Sunday,  and  she  had  brought  luncheon  in  a  basket  to  the 
deserted  City  Chambers  where  the  canvas,  begun  in  Fender's 
studio,  had  been  temporarily  put  in  its  destined  place.  He 
insisted  upon  continuing  the  painting  there,  after  the  manner 
of  the  Italian  fresco  painters.  "  It  is  to  hang  here,"  he  de- 
clared, "  not  on  the  line  at  the  Royal  Academy  or  in  Mrs. 
Lovatt's  drawing-room;  and  it  is  here  that  it  must  look  well, 
if  it  looks  well  anywhere,"  So  after  a  gay  picnic  in  his  little 
workroom  hidden  away  on  the  top  floor,  they  had  climbed  out 
upon  the  sunshiny  leads  to  talk. 

"To  my  mind,"  he  replied,. "there  is  no  essential  difference 
between  the  two.  Or  perhaps  it  is  simply  that  I'm  only 
capable  of  what  you  so  tactfully  call  '  the  other  thing.'  Any- 
how I  won't  deceive  you  about  myself.  I  want  you  frightfully, 
as  I  think  you  must  know  by  this  time.  And  I  want  you  in 
a  way  that  it  seems  to  me  just  now — mind,  that's  all  I  say, 
in  a  way  that  it  certainly  seems  to  me  just  now  I  have  never 
wanted  any  woman  before.  The  queer  thing  is  I  feel  quite 
unworthy  of  you,  my  dear,  pretty  child  (actually,  you  look 
pretty  this  afternoon,  neither  beautiful  nor  plain,  but  pretty!) 


OPENTHEDOOR  2xn 

It  seems  far,  far  too  good  to  be  true  that  you  should,  for  a 
single  moment,  want  me  as  I  now  want  you.  Yet  for  all  that 
I  don't  suppose  I'm  offering  you  what  you  with  your  notions 
would  call  love.  Mind,  I  believe  if  I  were  free,  in  spite  of  all 
experience  and  caution,  I  would  be  asking  you  to  marry  me. 
I  know,  you  see — that's  the  worst  of  it — that  you  are  too  good 
for  anything  else.  You  know  that  too,  Joanna.  You  know 
I  respect  you  like  anything,  and  always  shall.  Yet  upon  my 
soul  I'm  not  prepared,  as  things  are  at  present,  to  bolt  with 
you  to  America  or  wherever  it  is  people  go  who  give  up  all 
for  love,  as  they  say.  Not  that  you  would  fly  with  me,  I 
daresay,  if  I  asked  you.  Don't  think  I'm  taking  things  fatu- 
ously for  granted.  I'm  not.  But  there,  you  know  what  I 
mean,  my  dear  heart." 

"  You  mean  you  are  too  worldly-minded,"  said  Joanna  with 
pain  and  contempt  in  her  voice. 

"  Perhaps.  Call  it  what  you  like.  It  may  be  that  I  am 
not  a  good  enough  artist,  or  it  may  be  that  my  nature  is 
peculiar.  Anyhow,  to  do  my  work  I  need  a  certain  kind  of 
stimulus,  which  I  can  only  get  in  conventional  society.  Heaven 
knows  I've  no  illusions  about  it.  And  as  often  as  not  it 
bores  me  to  the  point  of  nausea.  But  I  always  come  back  to 
the  knowledge  that  I  need  it." 

In  the  silence  that  followed  this  speech  a  distant  church 
bell  began  to  toll  and  a  clock  nearer  at  hand  gave  out  the 
hour. 

"Mercy!  It  will  be  dark  in  no. time!  "  cried  Louis  start- 
ing up.  "  I  must  get  back  to  work.  Will  you  come  up  on 
the  scaffolding  with  me?  I  want  you  to  see  the  lunette  from 
there  too." 

"  You  know,"  he  said  boyishly  on  the  way  downstairs,  "  I 
always  want  to  hear  what  you  think.  That's  the  strange 
truth,  Joanna  dear.  There  are  times  I  feel  I  could  work  the 
ends  off  my  fingers  for  you." 

As  she  climbed  after  him  up  the  ladder,  and  stood  by  him 
on  the  narrow,  frail  platform  listening  to  his  vehement  exposi- 
tion, Joanna  tasted  happiness.  If  only  for  the  moment,  he 
was  pleased  with  his  work,  and  this  endeared  him  to  her  with- 
out wounding  her.  As  he  set  to  painting  he  whistled  gaily 
under  his  breath.  And  in  two  minutes  he  had  completely  for- 
gotten her.  But  never  had  she  felt  closer  to  him  than  then. 
She  could  have  stayed  for  ever,  it  seemed  to  her,  unnoticed 


212  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

and  joyful  by  his  side.  Indeed  it  was  some  time  before  turn- 
ing quickly  for  a  brush  he  saw  her  happy  face.  Hardly  paus- 
ing, he  realized  her  then  and  smiled  and  kissed  her.  He  was 
speedy  and  warm:  Joanna  adored  him. 

"  Get  some  tea,  and  call  me  in  half  an  hour,"  he  bade  her, 
"  the  light  won't  last  longer." 

She  was  swift  to  obey  him;  and  as  she  brewed  tea  for  them 
both  upstairs  in  the  little  studio  all  pleasantly  littered  with 
traces  of  him,  her  bliss  was  so  acute  that  she  felt  her  elements 
must  dissolve  and  fly  apart.  So  long  as  Louis  believed  in 
himself  she  was  content.  Even  to  be  the  toy  and  refresh- 
ment of  one  who  knew  himself  a  creator  of  beauty  was  enough. 

But  one  day,  later  on,  when  she  tried  to  tell  something  of 
this  to  him,  Louis  protested. 

"  Don't  be  a  fool!  "  he  exclaimed.  "  You  are  talking  bosh. 
You  know  it's  bosh!  " 

There  was  nothing  unpleasing  to  Joanna  in  his  roughness, 
especially  as  she  could  detect  the  pleasure  concealed  beneath 
it,  and  she  remained  unmoved.  She  was  sitting  to  him  that 
morning  in  his  Carmunnock  cottage  for  the  third  time,  but 
he  was  dissatisfied  so  far  with  all  his  sketches  of  her. 

"  It  is  the  truth,  Louis,"  she  retorted  gravely. 

"  Now,  look  here,  my  child,"  he  said  in  his  gravest  tone  and 
laying  his  pencil  aside.  "  You  are  working  yourself  up  about 
me,  and  you  mustn't  do  it.  I  don't  mean  that  you  don't 
believe  every  word  you  say  at  the  moment.  I  believe  I  under- 
stand you  through  and  through.  In  some  ways,  allowing  for 
different  circumstances,  we  are  not  so  very  unlike,  you  and 
I.  We  are  the  kind  of  people  for  whom  there  does  not  seem 
much  provision  made  in  a  modern  world.  In  Greece  I  suppose 
we  should  have  had  our  festivals  and  run  about  the  hills  in  a 
leopard  skin  apiece,  which  would  have  been  enormously  be- 
coming to  you  I've  no  doubt,  though  I  shudder  to  think  of 
my  own  figure  in  the  costume.  If  you  could  only  see  your 
eyes,  Joanna,  when  I  am  kissing  you!  With  you  love  is 
simple  intoxication;  but  an  intoxication  absolutely  necessary 
to  your  well-being.  And  why  not?  One  of  the  things  I  like 
in  you  is  that  you  are  frank  about  it  at  heart.  But  don't 
take  yourself  too  seriously.  Listen  to  the  wisdom  of  middle 
age  and  you  will  spare  yourself  much  pain.  What  will  happen 
is  that  one  of  these  days  you  will  find  yourself  wondering  what 
you  can  have  been  thinking  about.  Look  at  me!  I  ask  you 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  213 

to  look  at  me,  Joanna!  What  is  there  in  me  for  a  woman  like 
you  to  care  about?  No  I  assure  you  that  much  of  your  feel- 
ing for  me  is  quite  transitory.  More's  the  pity  for  me!  But 
you  will  not  be  able  to  say  I  haven't  warned  you.  No  re- 
proaches, my  dear,  I  beg  of  you,  when  the  time  comes!  " 

"  You  mean  you  are  afraid  you  will  get  tired  of  me?  "  asked 
Joanna  painfully.  And  as  Louis  made  no  answer,  only  smiling 
at  her  strangely,  she  went  on.  "  You  have  got  tired  of  so 
many  women." 

"  Oh!  Come!  "  he  exclaimed  grimacing  a  little.  "  I'm  not 
the  rake  you  make  out.  One  thing  is  certain:  I  have  not 
tired  of  so  many  as  have  tired  of  me.  But  seriously — 
now  I  am  talking  quite  seriously — there  have  not  been  more 
than  five  or  six  women  whom  you  could  say  had  counted  at  all 
in  my  whole  life.  Don't  you  call  that  a  very  modest  record? 
Remember  I  shall  soon  be  fifty.  I  consider  my  allowance 
has  been  small,  very  small  indeed.  Five  into  fifty:  he  wound 
up  frivolously,  "why,  it  only  comes  out  at  one  every  ten 
years!  " 

"  Tell  me,  Louis,"  persisted  Joanna.  "  Do  you  think  you 
would  get  tired  of  me?  " 

"  How  can  I  tell?  Perhaps.  Yes,  perhaps.  Who  knows? 
If  I  were  twenty  I  should  say  certainly  not — swear  it  by  all 
my  gods.  But  I  am  forty-seven.  What  amj[  to  say  but  the 
truth — perhaps?  It  is  possible.  I  can't  answer  for  myself, 
that's  all.  My  dear,  I  want  to  be  straight  with  you  from  the 
start.  I  feel  that  is  your  due." 

There  was  a  silence.  Joanna  felt  hopeless,  exasperated, 
puzzled.  It  was  not  so  he  had  spoken  the  day  before,  when 
he  had  courted  her  with  boyish  ardor.  And  though  she  knew 
him  equally  sincere  in  both  moods,  it  was  the  mood  of  disbelief 
that  most  deeply  impressed  her.  There  was  something  light 
and  hard  to-day  under  h;.s  mocking  tenderness,  like  the  claws 
concealed  within  the  pads  of  the  cat. 

But  an  idea  came  that  expanded  her  shrinking  heart  with 
a  brave  rush  of  joy.  And  the  words  proceeded  out  of  her 
mouth,  live  things,  independent  of  her  volition. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what,  Louis.  You  will  never  get  tired  of 
me.  One  of  these  days  you  will  fall  in  love  with  me,  and 
you'll  never  be  able  to  stop." 

The  bold  statement  sent  a  delirious  shiver  of  terror  through 
her,  but  she  sat  looking  calmly  at  Louis  without  a  smile.  A 


214  OPEN   THE    DOOR 

shade  of  fear  flashed  through  the  inquisitive,  fascinated  eyes 
he  turned  on  her,  meeting  her  glance  full. 

"  But  I'm  in  love  with  you  as  it  is,"  he  muttered.  (It  was 
true  that  he  had  never  been  more  subjugated  than  at  that 
moment,  had  never  felt  so  strongly  the  curious  moral  spell  she 
had  for  him.) 

But  she  shook  her  head,  smiling  now  as  he  became  grave. 
Now  she  was  no  longer  the  wounded  mouse  in  the  cat's  keep- 
ing. She  had  towered  in  one  moment  above  her  persecutor, 
demanding  and  obtaining  worship. 

"I  say  you  will,"  she  repeated.    "I  am  not  afraid!  " 

"  That  settles  it  then,"  said  Louis.  And  after  a  moment, 
he  added — "  I  must  say  you  seem  to  know  all  about  it!  " 

Instead  of  answering,  Joanna  rose  and  moved  towards  the 
window  near  which  he  was  sitting.  Louis  followed  her  with 
his  eyes.  There  were  certainly  times  when  she  was  full  of 
magic  for  him  and  this  was  one  of  them. 

"  I  wonder  if  it  will  rain  before  I  get  home?  "  she  was 
saying,  as  she  looked  out  at  the  gathering  blackness  of  cloud 
against  which  the  trees,  now  almost  in  full  leaf,  were  intense, 
mounting  flames  of  green. 

"  That's  right!  "  Louis  retorted  with  forced  lightness.  "  Let's 
talk  about  the  weather.  I'll  forget  that  I'm  madly  in  love 
with  you.  It's  an  excellent  idea.  Or  politics?  Politics  is 
always  safe.  What  do  you  think?  Will  there  be  a  general 
election  soon?  But  tell  me  first:  have  you  fallen  in  love  with 
anyone  since  we  said  good-bye  last  night?  You  seem  to  me, 
one  way  and  another,  to  meet  a  fair  number  of  young  men. 
There's  that  young  fellow  with  the  dark,  devoted  eyes — Urqu- 
hart.  He  would  make  you  a  good  husband  now.  Why  don't 
you  take  him?  I'm  sure  you  have  only  to  mention  it  to  him." 

At  the  unlooked-for  mention  of  Urquhart's  name,  Joanna 
turned  her  head  in  curiosity.  Why  should  Louis,  like  Mildred 
Lovatt,  insist  that  Lawrence  was  in  love  with  her?  And  her 
brothers  too!  After  Lawrence's  unremarkable  call  at  Col- 
lessie  Street  two  months  before,  since  when  she  had  not  met 
him,  they  had  teased  her  about  him.  But  she  herself  was 
by  no  means  certain.  He  was  too  persistently  friendly.  And 
lately,  during  his  absence  on  the  continent  with  Nilsson,  her 
unsought  friendship  with  him  had  taken  on  a  new  and  more 
permanent  aspect.  Out  of  the  joy  of  his  heart  Lawrence 
had  written  to  her  from  Holland,  from  Switzerland,  from  Italy. 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  215 

And  she  had  found  herself  rather  to  her  own  surprise  respond- 
ing with  unaffected  warmth  and  freedom.  How  well  she  could 
sympathize  with  the  raptures  of  that  first  escape  from  the  walls 
and  the  sounds  and  sights  of  home! 

"  Do  you  think,"  Joanna  asked  Louis,  still  looking  question- 
ingly,  at  him — "  Do  you  think  that  was  he  by  the  steps  the 
other  night?  " 

"  I  neither  know,  my  dear  child,  nor  do  I  care,"  replied 
Louis.  "  But  as  this  is  the  third  time  you  have  asked  me  that 
same  question,  I  take  it  that  you  do  care." 

No.  Joanna  protested  that  she  didn't  care  either.  It  was 
only  that  she  was  curious  to  know. 

What  had  happened  was  this.  While  Joanna  had  stood 
waiting  in  the  late  afternoon  near  the  granite  steps  of  the 
park  where  Louis  was  to  join  her,  she  had  noticed  at  some 
distance  a  figure  very  like  Lawrence  Urquhart's  also  apparently 
waiting,  and  she  had  felt  that  her  doings  were  watched.  Then 
Louis  had  come  and  the  figure  had  disappeared.  Could  it 
have  been  Lawrence?  He  was  certainly  due  to  be  back  in 
Glasgow,  but  she  had  not  heard  of  his  return. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,"  continued  Louis.  "  You  are  a 
bad,  dangerous  woman,  a  devourer  of  men,  Joanna.  That's 
what  you  are.  With  all  your  talk  about  love  and  '  the  other 
thing'  forsooth!  And  your  delicate  madonna-ish  airs!  You 
simply  want  us  all  to  be  mad  for  you.  That's  the  long  and 
the  short  of  it.  Now  isn't  it?  " 

But  he  had  quite  forgotten  Lawrence  now;  and  as  his 
tongue  tripped  on  between  his  smiling  lips,  irresponsibly, 
Louis,  with  all  his  mind  and  body,  was  really  only  waiting 
for  the  moment  when  Joanna  would  have  to  pass  him  again 
on  her  way  from  the  window.  When  that  moment  came  he 
clasped  her  waist,  and  Joanna  responded,  throwing  her  arms 
gladly  round  his  neck. 

"  We  are  just  a  pair  of  innocent  babes,  you  and  I,"  he  de- 
clared, "  infants,  that's  what  we  are.  You  can  take  it  from 
me.  But  the  whole  wretched  world  is  a  conspiracy  to  call  us 
guilty.  That's  all  that's  wrong." 

"  I  should  like  to  defy  the  world.  I  feel  able,"  said  Joanna, 
with  elation. 

"  As  you  please,  my  noble  goose!  But  I  cannot  join  you. 
I  know  the  old  monster  too  well.  It's  no  use.  We  should 
only  get  smashed.  No.  There's  only  one  way  permitted 


216  OPEN   THE    DOOR 

to  us,  and  you  know  it.  And  speaking  for  myself,  I  think  it 
absurd  that  we  should  not  take  it.  Shall  we  not  take  it? 
Ah!  Do  be  weak,  and  let's  take  it!  " 

"  But  I  want  to  be  strong.  I  don't  mind  paying,"  said 
Joanna. 

'•  Xo.    Be  weak!     Please  be  weak,"  he  urged. 

She  made  no  further  protest,  but  lost  herself  in  his  embrace 
which  was  more  passionate  than  ever  before. 

m 

Next  morning  on  first  waking  she  felt  such  misery  that  for 
some  moments  she  mistook  it  for  physical  illness.  But  with 
gathering  consciousness  she  knew  her  body  quite  free  from 
pain.  Her  trouble  then  was  not  physical.  What  was  it? 
With  a  sudden  access  of  suffering  that  made  her  flesh  shrink, 
she  remembered  yesterday's  parting  embrace.  It  overwhelmed 
her  that  she  could  so  yield  to  a  man  not  yet  in  fact  her  lover. 
Wliat  was  to  become  of  her? 

Yet  last  night  there  had  been  no  sense  of  wrong-doing.  It 
was  as  if  certain  moral  standards  she  had  thought  long  since 
discarded,  had  re-asserted  themselves  treacherously  while  she 
slept. 

For  a  long  half-hour,  Joanna  lay  trying  with  tense  nerves 
to  see  wherein  she  was  a  sinner.  In  such  an  attempt  it  was 
inevitable  that  the  religious  teaching  of  her  childhood  should 
have  a  part.  Indeed  the  very  attempt  showed  how  far  she 
still  was  under  the  spell  of  that  teaching.  For  her  there  was 
no  escape  save  by  following  it  out  remorselessly  in  action. 
In  Juley's  evangel  common  morality  must  ever  give  place  to 
the  larger  spiritual  issue  and  so  in  the  end  to  a  dominant 
egoism.  As  "  between  their  own  souls  and  God  "  she  had 
always  declared  her  children's  errors.  Therefore,  while  Joanna, 
like  King  David,  was  prepared  to  cry  "  Against  Thee,  Thee 
only,  have  I  sinned!  "  her  conscience  on  Mrs.  Pender's  account 
troubled  her  as  little  as  did  the  laws  of  Moses.  Such  were 
mere  worldly  concerns  to  be  paid  for,  if  put  on  one  side,  by 
mere  worldly  suffering.  Sin,  if  sin  there  were,  lay  elsewhere. 

Yet  searching  now  by  this  misleading,  but  not  ignoble  light, 
the  only  sin  Joanna  could  discover  lay  in  her  lover's  insuffi- 
ciency. If  only  Louis  could  have  committed  himself  with  her 
to  the  risks  and  sacrifices  involved,  she  would  have  been  un- 
troubled. But  he  lacked  either  the  certainty  or  the  courage 


OPEN   THE    DOOR  217 

of  his  love,  and  this  infirmity  of  spirit  in  him  imposed 
sin  upon  her  also.  No  man  sinneth  to  himself!  Herein  then 
lay  the  wrong  for  them  both. 

She  was  ready  to  acknowledge  this  and  to  accept  her  share 
of  it.  But  having  done  so,  her  mind  was  immediately  filled 
with  schemes  for  its  removal.  Where  was  the  use  of  perceiv- 
ing a  sin  unless  it  could  be  obliviated?  Louis  must  come 
by  the  assurance  he  lacked.  Only  so  could  her  conscience  and 
his  be  appeased.  Then  it  mattered  not  what  the  world  did 
to  them. 

But  here  again  Joanna  was  driven  back  time  after  time 
upon  her  original,  deep-set  belief,  her  instinct  (so  perfectly 
in  harmony  with  her  physical  passion)  that  Louis  could  be 
wholly  won  only  by  the  giving  of  herself  in  faith.  There  could 
be  no  pledge,  no  assurance  from  him  beforehand.  And  this 
was  the  reason  why  the  choice  remained  with  her. 

But  if  that  was  so,  sin  could  be  exercised  only  by  sinning, 
not  by  renunciation.  Was  this  the  truth? 

Unable  to  think  further,  Joanna  rose  at  length  and  dressed. 
It  was  Saturday,  and  there  was  nothing  to  do.  Often  on  a 
Saturday  she  went  walking  in  the  country  with  Louis.  But 
this  week  there  were  friends  with  him  from  London  and  she 
would  not  see  him  until  Tuesday.  How  was  she  to  pass  the 
day? 

At  breakfast  her  mother  begged  her  reproachfully  to  go  to 
La  France  Quadrant  with  a  measuring  tape  and  note-book. 
The  removal  was  now  fixed  for  a  fortnight  hence,  and  Joanna's 
self-imposed  task  of  measuring  beforehand  for  furniture  and 
carpets  had  already  been  shirked  more  than  once.  But  this 
morning,,  grateful  for  the  enforced  activity,  she  set  out  at 
once. 

The  hours  slipped  away  quickly  as  she  went  from  one  empty, 
tree-shaded  room  to  another  in  the  new  house  overlooking  the 
flint  mill.  The  mechanical  yet  exacting  work  was  soothing  to 
her  state  of  mind;  and  by  the  time  she  re-emerged  from  the 
Quadrant,  a  little  dazed  by  the  steady  physical  effort  she  had 
been  making,  one  o'clock  sounded  to  her  surprise  across  from 
the  University  tower. 

She  was  too  late  then  for  the  midday  meal  at  home.  And 
there,  directly  opposite,  were  the  shining  plate-glass  windows 
of  Sangster  the  baker.  The  smell  of  hot  bread  rose  from  the 
pavement  gratings  and  made  her  mouth  water:  the  trays  of 


2i8  OPENTHEDOOR 

glistening,  sweet  cakes,  and  the  rows  of  mahogany-colored 
"  cookies,"  still  undetached  and  gleaming  with  their  high  var- 
nish of  egg,  gave  her  a  peculiar  sensation  in  her  jaws  which 
was  almost  pain.  She  could  not  pass  the  place. 

On  leaving  the  white,  spring  sunshine  of  the  street  and 
entering  the  dark  inner  shop,  she  did  not  at  once  see  very 
clearly.  But  a  young  man  seated  near  the  door  drew  her 
attention  by  one  of  those  slight  but  uncontrollable  movements 
that  never  go  unremarked.  The  next  moment  her  sun-dazzled 
eyes  had  recognized  Lawrence  Urquhart. 

So  he  was  back! 

He  at  once  made  room  for  her  at  his  table  so  that  she 
had  no  choice  but  to  sit  by  him.  He  was  drinking  coffee 
and  had  been  reading  from  a  big  brown  book  which  was 
propped  against  the  sugar  basin.  This  he  moved  aside,  shut- 
ting it  carelessly  without  troubling  to  notice  the  page  or  to 
replace  the  marker  which  lay  beside  it. 

After  the  first  greeting  with  its  little  spontaneous  rush  of 
pleasure  for  the  unforeseen  encounter,  shyness  came  upon 
them  both.  He  said  he  had  been  back  these  three  days,  and 
then  she  was  sure  it  was  he  who  had  witnessed  the  meeting 
between  herself  and  Louis  by  the  granite  steps.  But  when  he 
went  on  to  tell  her  that  his  mother  had  fallen  ill  while  out  of 
town  so  that  he  was  travelling  up  and  down  daily  and  had  not 
yet  spent  a  night  in  Glasgow  since  his  return,  Joanna  became 
again  uncertain.  It  annoyed  her  that  she  should  be  sensitive 
now  for  the  first  time  to  his  opinion.  What  did  it  matter 
whether  he  had  seen  her  or  not? 

To  cover  their  awkwardness  they  tried  to  talk  of  Nilsson, 
of  the  places  Lawrence  had  visited,  of  the  first  payment  for 
her  designs  which  Joanna  had  received  some  days  ago  accom- 
panied by  an  order  for  more  work.  But  very  soon  the  con- 
versation failed  again,  and  Joanna  ate  more  quickly  and  drank 
her  coffee  without  wasting  a  moment  in  her  desire  to  be  off. 

"  It  seems  a  sin,"  he  said  presently,  stretching  out  his  hand 
for  a  cake  he  did  not  want — "  Don't  you  think  it  seems  a  sin 
to  stay  in  town  on  an  afternoon  like  this?  " 

Joanna  had  to  admit  that  it  was  a  lovely  spring  day. 

"  Couldn't  we  go  for  a  walk?  "  he  asked  then,  speaking  as 
if  the  idea  had  that  moment  struck  him.  And  seeing  that 
she  was  going  to  refuse  him  without  considering  he  went 
on: 


OPENTHEDOOR  219 

"  I  know  such  a  good  walk,  quite  short,  by  the  canal  all  the 
way.  The  hawthorn  is  going  to  be  a  wonder  this  year,  and 
there's  a  place  for  tea  near  one  of  the  locks.  I  wonder  do 
you  know  it?  " 

As  he  grew  more  urgent  Joanna  became  colder,  more  de- 
tached from  him.  He  had  not  finished  speaking,  before  she 
wondered,  slighting  him  in  secret,  whether  this  walk  of  his 
might  prove  one  which  later  she  could  show  to  Louis.  Louis 
was  always  accusing  her  of  ignorance  of  her  own  country- 
side. 

But  as  her  companion  searched  her  face,  something  in  his 
good  eyes,  penetrated  her  suddenly,  unexpectedly,  deeply.  Not 
that  she  would  acknowledge  it.  On  the  contrary  in  that  very 
moment  she  busied  her  mind  more  and  more  consciously, 
more  and  more  in  pure  wickedness,  on  Louis's  behalf,  and 
it  was  as  if  she  dealt  deliberate  wounds  to  the  eyes  that  faced 
her  across  the  little  table.  But  all  the  same  she  had  become 
possessed  of  the  triumphant  knowledge  of  how  those  same  eyes, 
at  present  so  steady  and  anxious,  would  lighten,  would  trans- 
form themselves  under  her  kisses. 

Meanwhile  she  heard  herself  giving  perfunctory  consent  to 
Lawrence's  suggestions  for  the  afternoon,  and  with  a  show  of 
polite  interest  which  masked  even  from  herself  her  shocking 
excitement,  she  listened  to  his  enthusiastic  description  of  a 
"  kind  of  little  farm  place  "  above  the  lock  where  the  woman 
gave  one  home-made  jam  and  fresh-baked  griddle-scones  for 
tea.  After  all  (Joanna  excused  her  acquiescence  to  herself, 
unconscionably)  it  would  be  better  than  staying  all  afternoon 
at  home.  To-morrow — Sunday — would  be  bad  enough,  and 
she  had  Monday  as  well  to  get  through  before  seeing  Louis. 
The  sudden  thought  followed  that  on  Tuesday  Louis  would 
learn  of  her  walk  with  Lawrence.  This  was  enlivening;  and 
involuntarily  she  smiled  at  her  companion  as  if  prepared  now 
for  enjoyment.  He  found  it  hard  to  subdue  the  delight  caused 
in  him  by  that  smile  of  malicious  sweetness. 

But  when  they  were  got  well  on  their  way,  and  were  strol- 
ling side  by  side — a  pair  of  young  lovers  to  the  casual  eye — 
along  the  canal  bank  which  was  festive  with  newly  formed 
leaves  and  the  hard,  ball-like  beginnings  of  blossom,  she  re- 
pented that  she  had  come.  How  lacking  in  savor  was  this 
compared  with  even  her  least  happy  hours  with  Louis!  What 
was  Louis  doing  now  at  this  very  moment?  What  sort  of 


220  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

people  were  those  London  friends  of  his?  As  the  longing  to  be 
with  Louis  increased  like  a  fever,  her  self-distaste  for  having 
consented  to  the  present  situation  was  also  augmented;  and 
as  both  emotions  intensified  each  other,  her  spite  against  Law- 
rence crouched  yet  lower  and  stiffened  for  the  spring. 

She  was  not  made  gentler  by  the  fact  that  Lawrence  was 
talking  more  than  he  usually  did  in  her  company.  He  was 
talking  with  positive  gaiety;  now  of  the  habits  of  the  mayflies 
which  drifted  in  derelict  heaps  on  the  surface  of  the  canal, 
now  of  a  prospective  lectureship  in  Mythology  and  Folklore 
for  which  in  time  he  hoped  to  be  a  candidate,  now  of  the 
Black  Cat  at  Bruges  where  Nilsson  had  introduced  him  to  the 
great,  half  mad,  Irish  sculptor,  Conolly.  Again,  with  a  curious 
kind  of  tremulous,  very  youthful  unction  which  Joanna  par- 
ticularly resented,  partly  because  it  was  so  Scotch  in  him, 
partly  because  she  guessed  it  a  cloak  for  emotion,  he  under- 
took to  describe  at  length  a  solitary  walk  he  had  made  from 
Zurich  across  the  Alps  into  Italy. 

And  as  with  so  many  ordinarily  silent  people,  speech,  when 
it  came  to  him  was  all  absorbing.  Lawrence's  companion 
well  knew  that  he  went  untroubled  by  her  presence  for  this 
hour  at  least,  and  as  he  persisted,  glowing  and  unobservant, 
she  withdrew  herself  in  a  more  and  more  violent  aloofness.  As 
the  tigress  withdraws  upon  herself  under  the  dark  thicket 
before  she  leaps  with  gathered  strength  upon  some  unwitting 
beast  that  gambols  outside  in  the  sunshine,  so  Joanna  with 
her  bright  hair  blowing,  and  her  fresh,  virginal  cheeks,  was 
essentially  at  this  moment  a  thing  hunched-up  with  the  desire 
to  inflict  pain.  How  dared  Lawrence  stretch  himself,  uncon- 
scious as  an  animal  in  the  spring  sunshine,  finding  happiness 
in  himself,  in  all  about  him,  even  in  her  unresponsive  com- 
panionship, while  she  walked  by  his  side  in  torment?  How 
dared  he? 

In  her  fury  of  malevolence  she  had  the  impulse  to  push  him 
with  all  her  might  into  the  dark  water  of  the  canal.  Then 
how  she  would  rush  to  Louis,  abandoned  and  laughing!  How 
she  would  throw  herself  into  his  arms! 

But  later,  as  they  sat  drinking  tea  and  eating  floury  griddle- 
scones  in  the  cottage  which  was  on  a  little  hillock  above  the 
lockhouse,  her  anger  against  Lawrence  changed  its  form  in- 
sidiously. And  now  if  Lawrence  was  more  than  ever  in  her 
power,  Joanna  was  no  less  the  victim  of  a  ruthless  force. 


OPEN   THE    DOOR  221 

With  leaping  excitement  she  looked  across  at  his  contented 
face.  He  was  grown  handsomer,  as  she  had  already  noticed, 
from  his  holiday  and  happy  exposure  to  the  sun;  and  as  she 
looked  she  knew  finally  and  clearly  that  she  must  see  his 
features  transfigured  as  she  alone  could  transfigure  them.  She 
must  have  him  no  longer  content  but  entirely  at  her  mercy. 

Abruptly  she  rose  and  moved  from  the  table  to  the  window. 
These  last  few  minutes  had  brought  a  silence  between  them. 
She  had  seen  a  puzzled  look  cross  her  friend's  face,  and  with 
all  the  weight  of  imposed  and  inherited  inhibitions  she  was 
struggling  against  her  deepest  impulse. 

"  It  was  good  of  you  to  bring  me  to  this  pretty  place," 
she  said.  It  was  the  first  banality  that  came  to  her,  but  in 
each  tone  of  her  voice  the  triumph  of  impulse  sounded. 

In  reply  Lawrence  got  up  and  came  to  her,  knocking  against 
a  chair  on  his  way  across  the  room.  He  was  shaken  through 
and  through  by  her  altered  manner  and  voice,  by  the  strange 
glance  she  had  given  him  before  she  turned  away,  by  the  subtle 
but  overwhelming  appeal  of  her  movement  and  of  her  whole 
body  there  by  the  window. 

He  stood  behind  her  waiting.  He  was  near  enough  for  her 
to  feel  his  breathing  on  the  nape  of  her  neck.  But  still  he 
waited  in  terrible  hesitation.  From  the  first  he  had  kept  his 
feeling  for  this  woman  apart,  had  refused  to  connect  it  with 
that  passionate  dreaming  which  he  regarded  as  the  bane  of 
his  life,  and  he  could  not  now  believe  what  his  senses  were 
telling  him  loudly  enough. 

"  Not  at  all,"  he  replied  feebly.  (He  would  try  even  at  the 
last  gasp  to  put  the  incredible  thing  from  him  and  avoid  ever- 
lasting catastrophe).  "  On  the  contrary,  it  was  so  friendly 
of  you  to  come — more  friendly  even  than  I  dared  to  hope 
from  your  letters." 

But  now  Joanna  turned  her  face  to  him,  and  he  was  lost. 
All  her  features  seemed  to  him  to  utter  a  cry  for  help.  The 
eyes  were  the  eyes  of  a  woman  drowning  and  already  half 
submerged.  But  more  than  in  the  eyes  the  urgency  was 
centered  in  the  mouth  with  its  sad,  young  contours.  He  could 
see  the  strong  teeth  which  for  some  reason  in  their  slight 
irregularity  had  more  power  than  any  other  single  character- 
istic of  hers  to  haunt  and  disturb  him. 

And  what  was  her  appeal?  Was  it  for  comfort?  For 
refuge?  For  love?  He  did  not  know.  He  only  knew  that 


222  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

whatever  it  was,  she  must  be  answered.  And  with  the  whole 
world  darkening  about  him  he  put  out  his  hand  and  took  hers. 

"  I  think  you  would  be  the  best  of  friends,"  said  she,  uncer- 
tainly, and  she  trembled.  They  both  stood  trembling  together 
full  of  fear,  all  the  world  an  abyss  beneath  them.  Only  in 
the  remote  distance  Joanna  seemed  to  perceive  the  faint, 
luminous  beginnings  of  a  rainbow  that  arched  over  a  world  of 
gray  chaos.  There,  there  it  was!  Dim,  but  shining,  the  gate- 
way of  escape  from  Louis. 

"  Do  you  really  mean  that? "  asked  Lawrence,  almost 
voiceless,  and  his  eyes  never  moved  for  an  instant  from  the 
lips  he  so  awfully  loved.  Joanna,  with  a  sudden  departure 
of  strength  from  her  knees,  had  sunk  down  facing  him  upon 
the  chintz-covered  window  seat.  Through  the  widely-thrown 
open  lattice  they  could  feel  the  cool  airs  of  the  spring  sundown, 
and  below  was  the  white-washed  lock  house,  so  cold  and  com- 
pact and  pretty  in  the  mounting  shadow,  and  the  closed  lock 
gates  through  the  joints  of  which  the  heavy,  thwarted  water 
hissed  threateningly. 

"  I  do  mean  it,"  Joanna  answered,  looking  at  his  hands, 
and  though  she  was  fighting  hard  for  steadiness,  her  voice 
went  wavering  pathetically  like  a  lost  child's.  "  I  wish  I  could 
know  you  were  my  friend.  I  think  I  need  you " 

Not  one  other  word  could  she  speak.  But  there  was  no  need, 
for  the  next  moment  Lawrence's  black  head  was  against 
her  knees,  against  the  knees  that  even  now  he  dared  not  pic- 
ture as  a  woman's.  He  had  dropped  crouching  on  the  floor 
before  her,  burying  his  face  in  her  skirts,  and  his  arms  clasped 
her  with  trembling  determination. 

"  You  know  I  am  yours,"  he  said,  "  to  do  as  you  wish  with, 
at  any  time,  in  any  way." 

"  Do  you  mean  you  love  me?  "  Over  Joanna's  chaotic 
gray  world  the  rainbow  gateway  of  escape  arched  more  and 
more  radiantly.  Here  was  what  Louis  could  never  give  her, 
what  at  the  eleventh  hour  would  save  her  from  Louis. 

But  when  Lawrence  first  raised  his  head  and  looked  up  at 
her  she  was  filled  with  sheer  terror  seeing  what  she  had  done. 
So,  she  thought  in  dismay,  must  dying  men  look. 

"  You  must  always  have  known  I  loved  you,"  he  replied. 


OPENTHEDOOR  223 


IV 

When  she  was  alone  again  and  at  home  Joanna  tried  hard 
to  shut  out  all  that  had  happened  but  a  single  fact.  Lawrence 
had  offered  her  a  way  of  escape  from  Louis.  She  had  called 
and  he  had  answered,  and  so  there  was  plighted  troth  between 
them.  No  matter  that  from  the  moment  of  his  single  embrace 
she  had  retreated  as  subtly  as  surely  from  him :  no  matter  that 
now  in  solitude  she  was  becoming  for  the  first  time  in  her 
adult  life  aware  of  sheer  wickedness  gushing  up  in  her  as  a 
spring  essential  to  her  nature: — there  should  be  no  going  back. 
With  each  hour  that  passed,  the  desire  increased  to  inflict 
suffering.  What  lay  behind  this  desire  and  beyond  its  ful- 
filment she  refused  to  contemplate. 

At  first  she  was  determined  to  write  to  Louis  cutting  herself 
off  entirely  and  at  once.  But  when  Sunday  morning  came  she 
could  not  do  this.  Instead  she  sent  him  a  note  telling  him 
that  she  had  engaged  herself  to  marry  Lawrence  Urquhart 
and  that  she  would  explain  everything  face  to  face  if  he  cared 
to  meet  her  on  the  coming  Tuesday,  as  had  already  been 
arranged  between  them. 

From  the  moment  of  posting  this,  all  her  force  contracted 
into  a  single  spark  of  expectancy.  To  see  his  face — that  was 
her  one  need.  As  for  Lawrence,  there  would  be  time  later  on 
to  think  of  him.  She  was  not  to  see  him  again  till  Wednesday. 
His  mother's  illness  had  helped  Joanna  to  make  this  arrange- 
ment. 


In  Collessie  Street  there  was  a  deathly  atmosphere  of  Sab- 
bath. Linnet  had  gone  out:  Juley  was  closeted  in  prayer  with 
Eva  Gedge:  one  of  the  neighbors  played  hymns  lingeringly 
on  an  American  organ — Joanna  felt  she  must  run  out  of  the 
house  or  go  mad. 

But  where  to  run  to?  The  streets  were  worse  than  indoors. 
Though  it  was  afternoon  they  resounded  with  gratuitous  church 
bells.  They  were  tolerable  at  such  times  only  for  swift  pas- 
sage. And  to  whom  could  she  pass  through  them?  Mildred 
was  gone  to  London  for  Easter:  Carl  Nilsson  was  in  Germany: 
the  Pringles,  like  most  other  people,  were  out  of  town. 

It  crossed  Joanna's  mind,  however,  with  a  spurt  of  hope, 
that  it  was  just  possible  Phemie  might  be  alone  at  Sans  Souci. 


224  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

On  the  Saturday,  there  had  been,  she  remembered,  an  orches- 
tral concert  at  which  Phemie's  favorite  soprano  had  been 
singing.  Surely  for  such  an  occasion  she  would  have  returned 
to  town.  It  was  at  least  worth  trying  for. 

So  Joanna  swung  away  to  the  South  Side  of  the  town, 
perched  and  clinging  to  her  hat  on  a  wildly  rocking  tram-car. 
(The  electric  cars  rushed  and  swayed  on  a  Sabbath  with  special 
defiance  as  if  repudiating  the  jog-trot  observance  of  the  horse- 
cars  they  had  not  long  supplanted.)  And  she  told  herself 
how  glad  Phemie  would  be,  upon  hearing  of  her  engagement 
to  Lawrence.  Though  little  had  been  said  between  them  of 
Louis,  she  knew  that  her  friend  regarded  that  whole  situation 
as  hopeless — or  in  her  own  vernacular  as  "simply  no  earthly." 
And  now,  with  the  wind  in  her  face  and  the  gay  motion  of  the 
car  as  it  tossed  her  up  hill  and  down,  Phemie's  friend  was 
ready  to  admit  the  verdict.  It  might  not  be  true  to  say  that 
she  had  envied  the  straightforward  devotion  of  young  Jimmie, 
in  whch  Phemie  throve  and  put  forth  blossoms  like  a  healthy 
plant.  But  it  was  none  the  less  a  satisfaction  that  she  could 
take  her  place  as  it  were,  in  the  same  sunny,  unadventurous 
plot.  After  all,  was  there  not  a  sweetness  in  plain,  common 
sense? 

But  when  she  reached  the  villa  all  the  blinds  were  drawn 
down  and  there  was  no  sign  of  life. 

It  was  a  disappointment.  She  felt  repulsed,  quite  flat 
suddenly.  Only  now  did  she  realize  how  desperately  she  had 
been  counting  on  Phemie's  approval. 

Hoping  against  hope  she  entered  the  garden  and  walked  up 
the  path  to  the  front  door.  To  her  joy  the  outer  door  at  least 
was  unbarred.  She  rang  the  bell  eagerly,  but  waited  in  vain 
for  any  answering  signs  from  within.  Again  after  a  minute 
she  rang,  this  time  without  Expectancy.  And  again  nothing 
happened,  except  that  another  tram-car  went  rocking  past 
outside  on  the  road  and  the  people  on  the  top  looked  down  on 
her  efforts,  mockingly,  as  it  seemed  to  her. 

Then,  just  as  she  was  turning  to  go,  one  of  the  blinds  in  the 
bow-window  of  the  dining-room  moved  a  very  little  and  she 
distinguished  Phemie's  face  peering  out  below  it. 

"  Phemie!  "  she  cried,  running  up  the  steps  as  the  face 
instantly  disappeared  again  on  recognizing  her.  "  Phemie! 
Phemie!  " 

Within  the  house  to  her  relief  there  was  an  answering  cry, 


OPEN    THE    DOOR 

and  she  heard  the  familiar,  characteristic  sound  of  Phemie's 
feet  thudding  childishly  across  the  stone  hall. 

But  the  moment  she  had  set  eyes  on  Phemie's  face  her  own 
affairs  sank  into  insignificance.  It  was  so  altered,  that  usually 
gay  visage,  with  long  continued  weeping,  and  the  small,  charm- 
ing features  were  set  in  such  lines  of  fear,  that  seeing  it 
Joanna  feared  for  her  friend's  wits. 

At  first  they  could  do  nothing  but  hug  each  other,  Phemie 
returning  Joanna's  embrace  convulsively.  Then  they  went 
together  into  the  sunless,  calico-covered  dining-room. 

"  Phemie,  what  is  wrong?  "  exclaimed  Joanna.  "  Tell  me, 
what  is  it  my  darling?  Or  shall  I  go  away?  Would  you  rather 
I  went  away?  " 

"No,  no!  "  Phemie  begged,  clutching  her  like  a  despairing 
child.  "  Don't  go.  Don't  leave  me.  I'm  that  glad  to  see 
you!  I  thought  I  was  going  out  of  my  mind  till  you  came. 
See,  sit  here.  I'll  make  tea.  Or  no,  let's  go  to  the  kitchen: 
this  room  is  like  death  itself.  Oh!  Lord,  what  a  comfort  to 
have  you.  Wait,  111  tell  you.  I'll  just  put  the  kettle  on 
first." 

In  the  kitchen  Joanna  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  table  watching 
her  friend's  impetuous  movements  (surely  no  one  else  had  so 
to  fly  about  to  make  a  cup  of  tea!)  and  turning  over  in  her 
mind  all  the  calamities  that  could  have  happened.  The  fact 
that  Phemie  could  think  of  tea  was  no  proof  that  her  trouble 
was  a  small  one.  If  the  Last  Trump  had  sounded,  Phemie 
would  have  contrived  to  get  tea  before  answering  the  summons. 
Besides  in  spite  of  her  lively  movements  there  was  still  all  the 
while  that  deep,  painful  frown  between  her  brows.  Joanna 
could  not  doubt  that  something  serious  had  happened. 

"  I'm  going  to  New  Zealand,"  announced  Phemie  when 
she  had  pushed  away  her  thrice  emptied  cup,  and  she  threw 
back  her  face  down  which  the  tears  were  now  rapidly  coursing, 
— "  going  to-night, — and  I'm  Terrified!  It's  Jimmie,"  she 
continued.  "  He's  in  Liverpool  now.  No  one  knows  but 
his  father  and  me.  And  I'm  to  join  him  to-night.  The  day 
after  to-morrow  we  sail.  If  we  didn't  he  would  have  to  go  to 
prison.  It's  a  fearful  thing.  Yes,  wait, — I'll  try  to  tell  you 
— it  really  wasn't  Jimmie's  fault.  At  least  heaps  of  men  do 
the  same,  he  says,  every  day,  only  they  don't  get  found  out 
just  at  the  wrong  time,  and  later  on  people  only  think  how 
clever  they  were.  But  anyhow  with  him  it  was  all  for  my 


226  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

sake — so  that  we  could  get  married  sooner — we  were  both 
sick  tired  of  waiting — no  one  knows — lately  it  has  been  awful— 
if  it's  anyone's  fault,  it's  Papa's  and  Mamma's.  They  could 
have  helped  us  long  ago  instead  of  waiting  to  leave  us  money 
when  they  die.  But  they  wouldn't.  Parents  are  awfully 
wicked,  I  think,  don't  you?  But  oh,  I  don't  want  to  go  away 
I  mean  I  didn't.  And  you  know  Papa  was  giving  us  the  villa 
next  year  and  we  had  nearly  all  the  furniture  for  it.  Now 
Jimmie's  father  will  take  that  to  pay  part  of  the  debt!  " 

Gradually,  as  she  grew  calmer,  Phemie  was  able  to  give 
Joanna  a  preciser  account  of  the  catastrophe.  Jimmie  had 
been  speculating  with  business  money,  and  borrowed  money 
at  that.  Phemie  herself  did  not  know  the  exact  nature  or 
extent  of  the  crime.  She  only  knew  that  he  had  done  some- 
thing big  enough  and  bad  enough  to  be  sent  to  prison  for ;  and 
that  he  had  risked  this  only  for  love  of  her.  Otherwise  his 
record  was  clean.  It  was  because  of  this  that  his  father,  and 
his  creditors  for  the  sake  of  his  father,  were  willing  to  hush 
things  up.  But  the  condition  of  hushing  up  was  that  he  should 
leave  the  country  at  once.  And  if  there  was  one  thing  Phemie 
was  sure  of,  it  was  that  once  the  facts  came  to  her  parents' 
ears,  she  would  never — never  on  this  earth — be  allowed  to 
follow  her  disgraced  lover.  It  was  now,  she  felt,  or  never. 
And  Jimmie  needed  her  and  she  needed  him,  and  she  had  prom- 
ised, and  their  passages  were  booked  steerage,  and  they  were 
to  be  married  by  special  license  before  sailing  on  Tuesday,  and 
here  was  her  ticket  to  Liverpool  which  Jimmie  had  given  her 
yesterday — in  her  stocking  for  safety.  But  it  would  be  a  lie 
to  say  that  the  prospect  did  not  fill  her  with  absolute  terror. 
To  her  the  voyage  was  a  horror,  the  new  country  a  place  of 
rawness  and  struggle,  desperate  struggle  for  one's  bare  sub- 
sistence. The  Pringle  family  was  too  newly  removed  from 
real  poverty  for  its  daughter  not  to  have  this  dread;  and  more 
and  more  exquisite  as  it  receded  seemed  the  South  Side  villa 
with  its  antiques,  its  deep  arm  chairs,  its  rose-patterned 
chintzes. 

To  Joanna,  out  of  whose  blood  generations  of  easy  if  frugal 
living  had  bred  all  fear  of  destitution,  this  was  the  least  part 
of  Phemie's  trouble.  How  joyfully  thought  she,  would  she  have 
followed  a  dishonored  and  penniless  Louis  to  any  part  of 
the  world  if  he  had  but  summoned  her. 

And  it  was  by  this  envy  more  than  by  sympathy  that  she 


OPEN   THE    DOOR  227 

presently  succeeded  in  cheering  her  friend  to  some  degree. 
At  first  Phemie  was  astounded  by  the  mere  possibility  of  envy 
of  her  lot,  but  it  did  not  fail  in  its  effect.  Indeed  before  an 
hour  was  passed  she  found  herself  able  to  laugh  with  tremu- 
lous amusement.  After  tea  they  had  gone  upstairs  to  finish 
the  packing  which  Joanna's  arrival  had  interrupted.  And 
Joanna  had  set  about  making  an  inventory  of  the  once  precious 
bottom-drawer  possessions  which  had  mostly  to  be  left  behind. 
No  doubt  Annie,  whose  own  wedding  was  not  far  off,  would 
buy  the  things  and  send  her  sister  the  money.  Annie  could 
be  counted  on  for  that.  As  they  spoke  of  this,  Joanna's  own 
secret  trembled  on  her  lips,  but  she  could  not  bring  herself 
to  utter  it. 

Phemie's  train  was  at  seven,  and  as  the  afternoon  drew  on 
she  grew  nervous  again.  Without  Joanna,  she  declared  she 
simply  did  not  know  how  ever  she  should  have  managed. 
It  was  Joanna  who  strapped  the  luggage,  her  own  fingers 
trembled  so  that  Joanna  went  for  the  cab  while  she  sat  shaking 
all  over  on  the  edge  of  the  bed.  But  half  dead  with  fear  as 
she  was,  Phemie  had  no  doubts.  Nothing  could  have  dis- 
suaded her.  She  was  Jimmie's,  and  this  awful  thing  had  to 
be  gone  through.  So  far,  except  for  one  or  two  moments  under 
Joanna's  influence  during  the  packing,  she  had  enjoyed  none  of 
the  savor  of  adventure.  It  was  too  real  as  she  saw  it,  too 
stark  for  that.  But  Jimmie  would  be  on  the  platform  at 
Liverpool  waiting  for  her:  and  once  with  him  she  would  be 
all  right.  She  clung  blindly  to  that. 

Joanna  would  have  made  the  journey  with  her,  but  Phemie 
refused  with  sudden  firmness.  "  I  must  learn  to  do  things 
by  myself  now,"  she  said,  trembling  but  resolute,  "  otherwise 
I  shan't  be  much  good  to  Jimmie  out  there." 

So  they  said  good-bye.  Phemie  hung  out  of  the  carriage 
window  fluttering  her  sopping  handkerchief,  and  Joanna  weep- 
ing also,  torn  between  tenderness,  the  pain  of  parting,  and 
sharpest  envy,  stood  waving  on  the  platform  till  the  train  was 
out  of  sight. 

There  was  nothing  to  do  now  but  to  go  drearily  home. 

VT 

That  night  she  was  restless  and  her  sleep  full  of  uneasy 
dreaming.  She  dreamed  that  Jimmie  was  her  lover  and  had  laid 
his  head  in  her  lap.  But  when  he  looked  up,  his  face  was  the 


228  OPENTHEDOOR 

face  of  Lawrence  Urquhart,  and  Joanna  felt  ashamed  before 
him,  knowing  that  she  had  that  day  promised  to  go  with  Louis 
to  New  Zealand. 

On  the  Monday  morning  she  had  work  to  do  but  could  not 
settle  to  anything. 

By  this  time,  she  kept  thinking,  Louis  must  have  got  her 
letter.  What  did  he  think?  She  grew  more  and  more  miser- 
ably certain  that  he  would  not  come  the  next  day,  that  she 
would  never  see  him  again.  Then  she  wouldn't,  she  vowed 
vindictively,  see  Lawrence  either.  She  would  join  Phemie 
and  her  Jimmie  at  Liverpool  and  get  them  to  take  her  abroad 
with  them.  For  some  indefinable  reason  she  could  not  endure 
the  idea  of  seeing  Lawrence  again  unless  she  had  first  seen 
Louis.  She  felt  wild,  defiant,  false  to  every  one.  Let  them 
think  of  her  and  treat  her  as  they  liked!  She  would  escape 
from  them  all.  She  would  go  to  some  place  where  she  could 
live  in  utter  solitude.  But  first  she  wanted  to  hurt  them  all, 
to  revenge  herself  on  them. 

She  could  not  stay  still  indoors,  and  soon  after  break- 
fast went  out  and  walked  in  the  streets  staring  at  shop-win- 
dows. A  lust  came  upon  her  for  the  acquirement  of  new 
clothes.  This  she  did  not  attempt  to  withstand.  True  she 
had  no  money.  All  she  had  had  in  her  purse  the  day  before 
(two  pounds  which  was  the  remains  of  the  first  payment  for 
her  designs)  had  been  slipped  as  a  surprise  wedding  present 
in  among  the  folds  of  Phemie's  honeymoon  night-gown.  But 
this  did  not  stop  her.  She  knew  that  as  Miss  Bannerman,  if 
not  under  her  married  name,  she  could  get  credit  anywhere 
in  town.  So  she  bought  herself  a  coat  that  had  taken  her 
fancy.  It  was  of  powder  blue  cloth,  belted  like  a  highway- 
man's. And  to  go  with  it  she  discovered  a  gallant  hat.  Leav- 
ing her  old  coat  and  hat  to  be  sent  up  later,  she  paraded 
home  in  these  new  clothes.  She  knew  not  how  she  was  to 
wait  till  the  morrow. 

She  was  inspecting  her  new  finery  afresh  after  the  midday 
meal,  in  front  of  the  long  mirror  in  her  bedroom,  when  Janet 
the  old  cook  knocked  at  the  door  and  cried  out  querulously 
that  there  was  a  visitor  for  Miss  Joanna  downstairs. 

Before  opening,  Joanna  bundled  her  purchases  guiltily  into 
the  wardrobe.  Who  could  have  called?  It  was  not  yet  three 
o'clock! 


OPENTHEDOOR  229 

The  cook  stood  panting  outside,  on  the  landing.  She  exuded- 
reproach,  holding  her  hand  with  a  world  of  meaning  to  the 
left  side  of  her  large,'  starchy  print  bosom.  Mary  the  house- 
maid had  been  ill  and  was  having  a  fortnight's  holiday  before 
the  ordeal  of  the  flitting.  (The  Bannermans  kept  but  two 
servants  these  days).  And  as  it  was  Janet  herself  who  had 
elected  to  carry  on  single-handed  in  the  interim,  sooner  than 
have  "  a  strange  girl  about,"  Janet  had  acquired  the  right  to 
be  cross  and  sorry  for  herself  from  morning  till  night,  but 
most  particularly  in  the  afternoon  when  anyone  was  ill-advised 
enough  to  ring  the  front  door  bell  before  three  o'clock. 

"  There's  a  gentleman  downstairs,"  she  said,  speaking  quite 
faintly  now  that  she  was  observed.  "  He  asked  for  you — 
he  gave  his  name — but  I've  nae  heid  for  names,  and  if  I  had, 
thae  stairs  would  have  knocked  it  out  o'  me." 

"  No'm.  Not  a  young  gentleman,"  she  replied  in  answer 
to  a  question  from  Joanna,  and  she  fetched  a  yet  more  painful 
sigh,  "  at  ony  rate  no'  what  you'd  ca'  young." 

As  Joanna  crossed  the  landing  at  the  top  of  the  stairs  she 
shook  so  that  she  was  afraid  she  would  not  be  able  to  walk 
down. 

It  must  be  Louis!  He  had  come.  It  was  only  Monday,  so 
his  friends  from  London  were  still  with  him.  But  he  had  not 
been  able  to  stay  away  after  getting  her  news.  He  had  even 
broken  through  his  hitherto  firm  objection  to  calling  at  Col- 
lessie  Street.  This  was  the  first  time  he  had  entered  the  house, 
and  he  had  done  it  unasked. 

She  began  the  descent  of  the  stairs. 

At  first  she  had  to  move  slowly,  mechanically:  she  was  so 
perfectly  the  victim  of  the  beating  of  her  own  heart.  Her 
heart  was  a  flail,  an  appealing,  demented  flail,  assaulting  her. 
All  other  sensation  was  cancelled.  Under  its  persecution  she 
barely  clutched  consciousness,  barely  kept  her  body  upright 
and  progressive  by  clinging  with  her  right  hand  to  the  steep, 
downward-sloping  banister. 

But  by  the  time  she  reached  the  second  flight  she  went  free 
from  that  dominion.  It  was  gone  completely,  as  if  it  had 
never  been.  And  now  instead,  her  heart  felt  small,  felt  tiny, 
felt  buoyant  like  a  boat  or  a  bird  that  is  serenely  lifted  on  a 
quiet,  immense,  triumphant  surge.  She  had  never  been  so 
exempt.  It  was  something  like  the  fearless,  sudden  clarity 


230  OPEN   THE    DOOR 

which  had  come  in  childhood  when  she  climbed  high  up  on  a 
dangerous  place  or  ran  barefoot  from  stone  to  stone  with 
perilous  gathering  momentum  down  the  Duntarvie  burn. 

Save  that  now  it  was  a  dual  and  therefore  a  rarer,  maturer 
ecstasy.  She  was  poised  and  keen,  a  hawk  in  mid-air,  a  speck 
of  perfect  bliss  upheld  in  perfection  of  readiness  for  the  pre- 
datory swoop.  Yet  in  that  same  instant  she  also  lived  in 
every  pulse  for  that  other  consummation  of  her  nature  in  which 
her  breast  would  be  transfixed  by  talons  stronger  than  her  own. 

And  therein — shining  in  this  moment  of  dual  revelation — 
her  new  knowledge  lay  clear.  Why,  she  asked  herself  in 
amazement,  had  she  all  her  life  taken  for  granted  that  she 
was  innately  gentle,  candid,  good,  when  in  reality  she  was 
quite  as  innately  fierce,  treacherous,  wicked?  She  had  been 
taught,  of  course,  that  all  human  virtues  were  sadly  tinc- 
tured as  by  some  tragic  accident  with  their  "  natural  "  oppo- 
sites, — qualities  wild  and  dark ;  but  that  in  the  struggle  towards 
perfection  such  qualities — remnants  of  the  jungle  from  which 
Christ  redeemed  us — must  be  expelled  increasingly  from  our 
lives.  In  their  total  expulsion  perfection  would  lie  and  Heaven 
be  achieved.  And  this  famous  and  stimulating  doctrine  had 
never  been  seriously  questioned  by  her.  She  had  not  been  able 
to  accept  Georgie's  gratifying  theory  that  all  evil  was  but 
perverted  good.  But  now,  descending  the  familiar  staircase,  as 
by  lightning,  Joanna  saw  a  different  truth.  It  was  a  truth  of 
which  she  had  many  times  before  had  glimpses.  With  Gerald, 
with  Mario,  even  with  Bob — always  when  her  essential  female 
being  had  come  into  conflict  with  the  male,  obscure  hints  of  it 
had  sought  admission  to  her  understanding.  But  not  until  now 
had  it  really  emerged  as  something  complete,  authoritative  like 
the  writing  on  the  wall. 

Joanna's  discovery  was  that  "  evil  "  (in  the  Christian  sense 
of  the  word)  quite  as  much  as  "  good  "  had  made  her  alive, 
that  "  evil  "  quite  as  much  as  "  good "  had  made  her  an 
individual,  a  human  being,  a  divine  creation  herself  capable 
of  creative  life. 

Further  she  perceived  that  this  admission  altered  every- 
thing. It  was  as  if  before  her  eyes  the  Creator  had  once  more 
divided  chaos  with  a  word  into  darkness  and  light.  No  longer 
did  her  "  good  "  show  dimmed  and  confused  by  her  "  evil," 
nor  her  "  evil  "  faintly  transfused  by  her  "  good."  Her  "  good  " 
was  now  dazzling  and  apart,  a  pure  element  of  light:  her  "  evil  " 


OPEN   THE    DOOR  231 

was  utter  and  separate,  a  pure  element  of  darkness.  They 
were  the  two  sides  of  a  coin.  The  dove  was  on  one  side;  on 
the  other  side  the  hawk.  To  obliterate  either  was  to  invali- 
date the  coinage,  to  defame  the  mint  from  which  it  had  issue. 
And  the  two  could  be  mingled  only  in  the  discreditable  act 
of  destruction. 

To  her  it  was  a  vision,  no  less.  She  knew  she  would  never 
be  quite  the  same  after  it  as  she  had  been  before. 

Smiling,  half-blinded  as  if  by  bursting  sun-rays,  though  the 
house  was  dark  enough  and  it  was  a  dull  day  out  of  doors, 
Joanna  opened  the  door  of  the  room  where  Louis  was  waiting 
for  her.  She  became  aware  at  once — by  some  other  than  her 
ocular  sense,  it  seemed  to  her — that  he  was  grave  as  she  had 
never  seen  him,  and  intensely  anxious;  and  her  smile  broad- 
ened. She  wanted  to  shout  with  laughter  till  the  hidden  stars 
shook  in  their  places.  He  had  made  her  suffer.  Now  it  was 
his  turn. 

They  stood  facing  each  other  without  any  formal  greet- 
ing. 

"  Was  that  true  that  you  wrote  me?  "  he  asked. 

When  she  heard  his  voice  Joanna's  vengeance  passed.  With 
his  first  syllable  that  part  of  her  consummation  was  com- 
plete and  she  rendered  up  the  ascendancy  to  him.  As  he 
watched  her  in  cold  fury  she  ceased  to  be  the  kestrel  poised: 
she  became  instead  the  small  bird  that  flutters  close  to  the 
ground  for  its  life.  After  all  there  was  a  justice  in  things: 
she  admitted  that  rejoicing. 

"  Is  it  true?  "  Louis  repeated. 

"Yes,"  she  said.     She  dared  not  look  at  him. 

"Well,  of  course  you  are  free  to  do  as  you  please," — he 
struck  out  at  her  with  venom,  "  and  I  suppose  I'm  hardly  in 
the  position  to  criticize.  All  I  can  say  is  that  such  a  trick  is 
the  last  thing  I  expected  of  you.  Till  I  got  your  letter  this 
morning,  I  didn't  know  how  well  I  had  thought  of  you.  No 
one  in  this  world  but  yourself  could  have  convinced  me  that 
all  the  time  you  had  been  carrying  on  with  another  man. 
Engaged  to  be  married!  Pah!  I'm  ashamed  of  you  and 
still  more  ashamed  of  myself.  Don't  you  think  it  was  going 
a  bit  out  of  your  way  to  stab  an  old  fool  in  the  back  like  that? 
But  what's  the  use  of  talking?  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  why 
I  came  here  to  see  you.  After  all,  as  I've  already  said,  your 
life  is  your  own  to  do  as  you  like  with,  and  I've  no  doubt  you 


232  OPEN   THE    DOOR 

have  got  some  kind  of  satisfaction  out  of  fooling  me.  You 
have  certainly  succeeded." 

Joanna,  who  had  been  Very  white  in  the  face  at  the  be- 
ginning of  this  speech,  was  red  before  it  was  finished.  She 
sat  down  heavily  on  the  sofa  and  now  her  eyes  never  left 
Louis.  But  he  would  not  look  at  her  now.  Such  pain  as  this 
she  had  not  expected. 

"  Louis,"  she  said,  "  say  what  you  like  to  me,  but  that  about 
fooling  you  about  carrying  on  with  Lawrence  isn't  true,  and 
you  certainly  are  a  fool  if  you  believe  it.  He  never  made  love 
to  me  till  Saturday,  or  perhaps  I  made  love  to  him.  Something 
drove  me  to  it.  You  drove  me  to  it.  But  till  then  I  hadn't 
the  faintest  idea." 

Louis  had  to  believe  this. 

"  I  give  it  up  then,"  he  said  with  an  assumption  of  still 
greater  indifference  though  before  he  spoke  he  had  covertly 
scrutinized  the  quivering  girl.  "  You  are  all  the  more  incom- 
prehensible to  me." 

"  What's  the  meaning  of  it  all,"  he  continued  more  warmly. 
"  Can  you  tell  me?  I  promise  I'll  listen  as  patiently  as  I  can, 
and  try  to  understand.  Here's  a  woman.  On  Friday  she  swears 
she  loves  me,  throws  herself  at  my  head,  in  fact!  On  Satur- 
day she  promises  to  marry  some  one  else.  There  must,  I 
suppose,  be  some  reason?  Is  it  that  marriage  is  so  greatly 
to  be  coveted?  I  thought  you  agreed  with  me  about  that. 
Didn't  you  tell  me  one  day  of  your  own  accord ?  " 

"  I  never  stopped  loving  you !  "  interrupted  Joanna  pas- 
sionately, and  she  pressed  the  palm  of  one  hand  against  her 
throat.  "  You  know  it  well  enough.  And  I  don't  want  to 
get  married.  At  least  not  yet  and  not  to  Lawrence." 

"  If  that's  so,  then  you  must  be  mad,  that's  all,"  returned 
Louis;  "  and  I  think  you  are,  too."  But  a  change  had  come 
over  his  face,  and  for  a  second  his  fingers  went  slyly  to  his 
bright  mustache,  an  action  that  always  made  Joanna's  blood 
mount  like  wine. 

She  held  her  hands  tightly  together  in  her  lap. 

"  Don't  you  see,"  she  pleaded,  "  it's  because  you  don't  love 

me  enough  I  can't  be 1  don't what  can  I  say? 1 

musn't  let  you  go  on  making  love  to  me  when  you  really  care 
so  little.  For  you  as  well  as  myself;  I  can't,  can  I?  Don't 
you  feel  in  your  heart  that  I'm  right  not  to?  Tell  me  hon- 
estly what  you  think  I  should  do,  and  111  do  it." 


OPENTHEDOOR  233 

Louis  looked  at  her  for  some  moments  in  silence. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  he  said  at  length,  "  that  there's  no  more 
to  be  said.  You  know  best  what  it  is  you  want:  and  if  you 
don't  think  I  love  you  enough  you  are  the  one  to  judge. 
I  can't  offer  to  marry  you.  Frankly,  if  I  could,  I  believe  I 
would — if  that's  any  good  to  you.  But  it  isn't,  I  know. 
Nothing  I  can  say  or  do  is  any  good  to  you.  Don't  you 
think  I've  gone  over  that  a  hundred  times  in  my  mind?  And 
just  because  I  feel  as  I  do  towards  you  I'm  the  last  person  to 
advise  you.  I  see  you  sitting  there  looking  like  I  don't  know 
what — I  never  quite  know  what  you  make  me  think  of — 
and  I  feel  I'd  rather  you  were  dead  than  in  another  man's  arms. 
There  you  are!  And  what  use  is  that  to  you?  I  believe  you 
really  want  to  get  married.  Besides,  in  any  case  you  have 
decided  that  I  don't  love  you  enough." 

"  So,  Signora  Rasponi,"  he  continued  with  one  of  his 
flourishes,  when  he  had  waited  in  vain  for  some  retort  from 
Joanna,  "  it  only  remains  to  wish  you  every  happiness  in  the 
lot  to  which  it  has  pleased  heaven  to  call  you." 

"  Really,  my  dear,"  he  finished,  becoming  suddenly  tired  and 
simple,  "  perhaps  you  are  quite  right.  I  honestly  hope  so. 
Anyhow  I  wish  you  all  the  luck.  I  can't  say  more,  can  I? 
I  only  want  you  to  do  the  best  for  yourself.  And  now  good- 
bye." He  picked  up  his  hat  and  stick  and  held  out  his  hand. 

Joanna  did  not  move.  She  had  ached  to  rend  open  this 
man's  heart,  to  wrest  from  him  the  secret  truth  of  his  being. 
And  she  had  failed.  He  had  kept  himself  almost  wholly 
inviolate.  But  in  the  attempt  she  had  discovered  anew  that 
she  needed  him.  He  must  stay.  She  could  not  let  him  go. 
All  her  energy  now  centered  on  this,  that  he  must  not  go. 
Perhaps  for  the  first  time  since  childhood  she  was  in  deadly 
earnest.  The  insistent,  warping  histrionics  of  girlhood  were 
gone.  She  was  a  simple,  desperate  woman  trying  to  hold  a 
man  for  her  need. 

"  Can't  you  understand?  "  she  demanded  miserably.  "  I've 
made  a  fool  of  myself,  not  of  you.  I've  made  a  stupid,  dread- 
ful mistake.  You  know  I  love  only  you.  But  I  hoped 

Don't  you  see? " 

"  No!"  she  exclaimed,  raising  her  voice  loudly  in  anger. 
"No.  No.  No!  " — and  she  struck  upon  her  knees  with  her 
clenched  hands  while  the  tears  of  utter  humiliation  rushed 
scalding  from  her  eyes — "  it's  impossible,  quite  impossible 


234  OPEN   THE    DOOR 

that  you  should  ever  understand.  Idiot  that  I  was!  I  see 
that  now." 

Louis  laid  aside  his  hat  and  stick  again  with  one  of  the 
curious,  deliberate  movements  which  with  him  marked  ex- 
citement. And  he  sat  himself  down  by  Joanna  on  the  sofa. 

"  Idiot  you  are!  "  he  agreed.  "  But  truly,  Joanna,  do  you 
want  me?  " 

"  I  do.  Louis,  you  know  I  do.    But  do  you  want  me?  " 

"By  God!  I  do.  Oh!  my  dear  child.  What  a  ghastly 
pang  when  I  thought  I'd  lost  you." 

He  sighed  deeply,  boyishly.  It  was  a  great  danger  that  was 
overpast;  and  now  that  she  was  once  more  against  his  breast 
and  returning  his  kisses,  it  seemed  as  if  their  love,  always 
sweet,  was  wonderfully  enhanced.  This  was  all  they  thought 
of.  They  easily  refused  to  envisage  the  part  played  by  Law- 
rence Urquhart  in  their  new-found  happiness.  Surely  they  had 
been  born  for  this  thing,  and  the  attempt  to  escape  it  was 
worse  than  idle?  The  result,  whether  for  happiness  or  sor- 
row must  be  left  in  the  hands  of  nature  who  had  driven  them 
into  each  other's  arms.  Any  penalty  paid  by  themselves  or 
by  others  was  better  than  the  denial  of  so  strong  an  impulse. 

At  last  they  drew  apart,  and  Louis  said  he  must  go.  But 
Joanna  sprang  up  radiant,  with  shining  eyes  and  dishevelled 
hair. 

"  Wait  for  me  one  minute.    I'll  walk  to  the  station  with  you! 

She  rushed  upstairs,  threw  on  the  new  coat  and  hat,  and 
rejoined  him  within  two  minutes.  Her  lover  noted  with  a 
pang  that  she  looked  a  mere  schoolgirl.  Her  cheeks  were 
blazing. 

"What!     New  clothes?  "  he  exclaimed  in  a  peculiar  tone. 

"You  like  them?" 

"  Very  much.  They  are  the  best  I've  seen  you  in.  But 
you  are  a  mad-woman,  you  know.  I'm  not  at  all  sure  that 
young  Urquhart  isn't  well  quit  of  you." 

VII 

In  the  evening  Joanna  wrote  to  Lawrence.  It  was  a  longer 
letter  than  the  one  she  had  sent  to  Louis,  and  was  written  with 
labor  and  self-loathing.  She  tried  to  persuade  herself  that 
Lawrence  would  not  suffer  more  than  she  had  suffered  with 
Bob.  Sometimes  one  was  made  to  suffer;  sometimes  one 
made  others  suffer;  that  was  life.  Besides,  Lawrence,  loving 


OPENTHEDOOR  235 

her  as  he  did,  would  necessarily  have  suffered  even  if  she  had 
not  given  him  this  false  promise  of  happiness.  She  had 
only  accelerated,  not  created  his  misfortune.  So  she  reasoned, 
while  she  filled  her  letter  with  ready-made  phrases  of  peni- 
tence. She  was  "  dreadfully  sorry  and  ashamed,"  her  conduct 
had  been  "  unforgivable." 

It  was  hardly  possible  for  her  to  say  the  truth  to  him,  for 
the  truth  would  have  run  something  like  this: — "  Because  you 
have  a  fitful,  incomprehensible  attraction  for  me,  and  because 
I  trust  you  more  than  anyone  I  know,  also  because  I  wanted 
to  feel  I  had  power  over  you,  I  have  used  you  shamefully.  I 
have  made  you  tell  me  that  you  loved  me,  not  only  to  make 
sure  of  that,  but  to  force  the  hand  of  the  man  I  am  myself 
in  love  with.  On  the  whole  I  have  succeeded,  and  now,  though 
I  am  surprised  at  myself  and  perhaps  ashamed,  I  am  not  re- 
pentant. All  I  wish  is  never  to  see  you  again.  Your  pain 
might  trouble  me,  and  I  want  to  be  free  from  remorse  and 
reproach  to  follow  my  desire.  If  you  will  keep  out  of  nay 
way  I  shall  try  to  feel  friendly  towards  you." 

This,  however,  though  not  the  letter  Joanna  wrote,  was  not 
so  very  unlike  the  letter  that  Lawrence  was  to  read  at  the 
other  end.  Throughout  all  the  trite,  laborious  phrases  put 
down  upon  the  paper  the  reality  made  itself  felt  clearly  enough. 

That  same  night  Juley  took  to  her  bed  with  a  bad  gastric 
attack  which  had  been  threatening  her  for  some  time,  and 
the  doctor  was  sent  for.  It  was  not  immediately  serious,  he 
said  when  he  had  questioned  her,  but  she  must  have  special 
care  if  it  was  not  to  become  so.  Above  all,  for  the  next  few 
weeks  she  should  have  absolute  rest. 

But  while  the  doctor  was  speaking,  there  spread  over 
Juley's  face  a  crafty  and  obstinate  expression  well  known  to 
her  children.  As  soon  as  he  was  gone  she  declared  that  she 
felt  better  and  that  it  was  a  pity  he  had  been  sent  for  at  all. 
And  next  morning,  do  what  they  would,  she  got  up.  She 
could  rest,  she  said,  "  after  the  Flitting  "  which,  on  account  of 
incoming  tenants  to  Collessie  Street,  could  not  well  be  put  off 
to  a  later  date.  Meanwhile  it  was  urgent  that  she  should  "  set 
to  "  and  start  clearing  those  many  "  places  "  of  hers  which  were 
choked  with  the  accumulations  of  nearly  thirty  years. 

This  clearing  business  was  an  obsession  and  a  shame  to 
Juley,  and  a  matter  in  which  she  was  fiercely  secretive.  And 
sacred  above  all  from  the  prying  eyes  of  her  children  and 


236  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

servants  did  she  hold  the  famous  middle  part  of  her  huge 
bedroom  wardrobe  with  its  many  shelves  and  drawers.  When 
the  children  were  small  they  had  regarded  as  a  treat  of  treats 
that  they  should  be  in  the  room  on  the  rare  occasion  of  a 
clearing  of  this  receptacle  by  their  mother.  It  was  always 
kept  locked  and  the  key  in  Juley's  key-basket.  Even  when 
Joanna  became  a  woman  she  had  felt  it  something  of  an  honor 
to  be  handed  the  key  and  asked  to  fetch  something  out  of  the 
front  part.  And  now,  by  the  doctor's  explicit  orders,  the 
entire  wardrobe  with  all  the  other  places  to  be  cleared,  was 
delivered  into  her  hands. 

There  was  no  doubt  that  Juley  would  have  defied  the  doctor 
(even  with  Eva  Gedge  and  her  children  to  back  him)  had  not 
Linnet  conceived  the  happy  idea  of  sending  for  Mrs.  Boyd. 
And  to  everybody's  relief  Mrs.  Boyd  came. 

Either  because  of  her  pleasant  and  equable  disposition, 
which  Juley  so  wistfully  admired,  or  because  long  ago  in  her 
girlhood  she  was  known  to  have  cherished  a  romantic  passion 
for  the  elder  Sholto,  Maggie  Boyd  had  a  more  dependable 
influence  over  Juley  than  anyone  else,  and  it  was  certainly 
clever  of  Linnet  to  have  thought  of  her.  Since  the  Banner- 
mans  had  left  St.  Jude's  they  had  seen  very  little  of  their 
father's  old  friend;  but  for  this  very  reason  she  would  have 
all  the  more  weight  now. 

It  was  Joanna  who  went  for  her,  and  no  sooner  had  the 
little  old  lady  taken  in  the  situation  than  she  put  on  her  bonnet 
and  cloak  and  came  back  to  Collessie  Street,  bringing  her 
daughter,  Mamie,  with  her. 

She  would  have  no  nonsense,  she  announced,  calmly  lead- 
ing Juley  in  her  gray  dressing-gown  away  from  a  bewildered 
survey  of  the  crowded  box  room  under  the  stairs  and  back 
to  the  bedroom.  Juley  was  to  come  straight  to  High  Kelvin 
Place  this  very  day,  to  be  nursed  and  kept  in  order.  Joanna 
and  Mamie  between  them  would  be  responsible  for  the 
flitting. 

"  Two  great  strapping  girls,"  she  insisted,  indicating  the 
two  rather  slender  young  women  who  sat  either  side  on  the 
edge  of  Juley's  bed.  "  If  you  leave  everything  to  the  young 
people,  my  dear,  you  will  soon  be  led  to  see  that  your  illness 
was  providential.  And  there's  Janet  too!  A  regular  host 
in  herself.  Don't  tell  me!  I  had  no  idea  you  were  such  a 
faithless  Christian,  Juley  Bannerman!  " 


OPENTHEDOOR  237 

Very  soon  it  was  decided.  Juley  protested.  She  even 
cried  a  little.  But  she  was  smiling  through  her  tears.  Really 
she  loved  to  be  exhorted,  accused  of  lack  of  faith,  treated  as 
a  child,  except  by  her  own  household.  And  though  it  still 
distressed  her  to  think  of  her  wardrobe  and  the  disgrace  of  her 
cupboards,  she  was  actually  got  off  in  a  cab  by  the  afternoon, 
all  wrapped  up  in  shawls  and  childishly  excited  at  the  pros- 
pect of  being  ill  at  High  Kelvin  Place. 

Rather  to  Joanna's  surprise,  two  days  had  passed  without 
word  or  sign  from  Lawrence.  But  on  Wednesday  morning 
the  post  brought  a  letter  addressed  in  his  hand.  It  was 
black-edged. 

With  a  premonition  of  distress  she  opened  it  and  read: — 

"  Dear  Joanna, 

"  They  say  troubles  never  come  singly.  Certainly  that 
has  been  my  experience  these  last  few  days.  When  I  got  home 
here  on  Saturday  evening  I  found  my  mother  had  taken  a 
turn  for  the  worse  and  she  died  on  Monday.  It  was  her 
heart  that  gave  out.  Then  this  morning  your  letter  reached 
me.  I  am  still  too  confused  and  stunned  to  grasp  all  that 
it  means,  and  fortunately  as  I  must  suppose,  my  whole  atten- 
tion is  still  required  for  practical  matters  in  connection  with 
my  mother's  death,  You  say  I  am  to  forget  what  passed 
between  us  on  Saturday,  as  it  was  all  a  mistake  on  your  part. 
Bitter  as  this  is  to  me  I  can  understand  it  well  enough.  What 
I  cannot  understand  is  how  I  ever  for  a  moment  believed 
it  was  anything  but  a  dream.  But  why  is  it  better  that  I 
should  not  see  you  again?  I  do  not  want,  nor  do  I  mean  to 
make  any  appeal  ad  misericordiam,  if  that  is  what  you  are 
afraid  of.  But  in  the  circumstances  surely  it  is  for  me  to 
decide  whether  or  not  I  am  to  see  you  again  on  the  former 
friendly  footing?  You  cannot  know  what  it  is  to  me  to  see 
you  or  you  would  not  ask  this.  If,  as  you  say,  you  are 
the  one  in  fault,  how  is  it  in  your  right  to  dictate  in  the  matter 
of  my  small  remaining  claim?  You  say  you  would  rather 
have  suffered  yourself  than  make  me  suffer.  If  this  is  true 
then  let  your  penance  be  the  continuance  of  our  friendship. 
Perhaps  I  need  that  just  now  more  than  the  other. 
"  Forgive  me  if  I  seem  rude,  and  believe  me, 
Ever  your  friend, 

LAWRENCE  URQUHART." 


238  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

As  she  read  this  letter,  anger  struggled  with  acknow- 
ledgment in  Joanna.  Somehow  she  was  thwarted  by  it,  be- 
littled and  punished  and  put  down,  while  the  writer  rose 
suddenly  to  a  new  place  in  her  thoughts.  She  had  to  admit 
his  right  to  make  her  feel  not  so  much  wicked  as  wanton  and 
petty:  but  it  angered  her  that  fate  had  tendered  him  the 
unexpected  courage  to  use  this  right.  If  his  mother  had  not 
died  at  that  moment  Joanna  tried  to  tell  herself  he  would  have' 
sent  a  very  different  message.  What,  she  wondered  with  deep 
interest,  had  his  mother's  death  meant  to  him?  Anyhow, 
she  begrudged  the  event  that  had  strengthened  him  by  dealing 
the  two  blows  simultaneously.  Could  it  be  then  that  she 
had  coveted  the  sole  power  of  dealing  him  pain? 

In  reply  she  wrote  a  formal  letter  of  sympathy,  and  told 
him  that  she  would  be  busy  moving  house  for  the  next  few 
weeks. 

vm 

Through  the  next  ten  days  she  worked  with  Mamie  Boyd 
and  Janet,  but  harder  than  both  of  them  put  together.  She 
worked  harder  than  at  any  time  before  in  her  life,  and  far 
more  efficiently.  For  the  time,  she  put  her  drawings  and  all 
else  aside;  and  from  early  each  morning  till  past  midnight,  with 
hurried  intervals  for  meals,  hurled  herself  at  the  set  task. 

She  had  met  Louis  but  once  since  their  readjustment,  and 
then  only  for  a  few  minutes  in  the  street.  He  too,  as  if  in 
harmony  with  her,  had  taken  to  working  harder  and  longer 
than  before. 

But  their  one  meeting  had  been  significant,  full  of  under- 
standing and  tremulous  concord.  Desire  had  hovered  and 
beckoned  behind  the  flimsy  mask  of  his  attention  as  Joanna 
told  Louis  how  she  was  placed  in  sole  charge  of  all  the  arrange- 
ments at  home:  and  while  she  was  speaking  his  dumb  appeal 
received  its  answer  without  need  of  words.  He  was  smiling, 
she  very  grave  as  he  read  the  steadfast  promise  in  her  eyes. 

And  both  Mamie,  who  was  her  elder  by  five  years,  and  Janet 
who  had  been  privileged  to  scold  her  not  so  long  ago,  obeyed 
her  without  question.  They  carried  out  her  plans,  which  were 
surprisingly  ingenious  and  practical,  as  if  she  were  a  proved 
general.  In  every  one  of  her  actions  Louis  was  in  some  way 
involved,  but  now  she  would  not  think  about  him.  Her 
imagination,  was  a  falcon,  hooded  and  chained  till  the  appointed 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  239 

moment,  but  all  her  executive  faculties  were  sharpened.  She 
seemed  to  have  eyes  all  round  her  head,  to  dwell  upon  a  high 
watch-tower,  to  be  able  to  think  collectively  of  a  dozen  things 
at  one  time. 

The  state  of  the  hidden  places  at  Collessie  Street  was  a 
fresh  revelation  to  her  of  her  mother's  cumbered  life,  and  she 
became  every  hour  more  reckless  in  the  work  of  simplification. 
She  was  sure  that  nine-tenths  of  the  stuff  they  had  housed  all 
these  years  would  be  neither  used  nor  missed  by  any  member  of 
the  family.  Fuller  and  fuller  grew  the  old  ash-pit  in  the  back 
green.  But  Joanna  had  an  inbred  hatred  of  waste;  and  she 
would  trudge  up  and  down  the  long  stairs  fifty  times  a  day 
with  her  arms  full,  while  Mamie  made  her  heaps  into  bundles 
and  despatched  them  to  this  poor  person  or  that  charity.  And 
at  night,  dazed  with  fatigue  and  satisfaction,  she  would  stumble 
up  to  bed.  When  she  lay  down  at  first  her  thighs  and  the 
muscles  of  her  back  ached  so  acutely  that  she  groaned  aloud, 
but  within  five  minutes  she  would  be  sleeping  like  a  stone. 

In  the  sacrilege  of  the  wardrobe  she  would  allow  no  one  else 
to  share. 

As  the  great,  curving,  mirrored  door  swung  heavily  back 
upon  its  hinges  Joanna  was  a  child  again;  and  the  enclosure 
with  its  trays  and  drawers,  and  its  middle  place  lined  with 
faded  blue  box-pleating,  appeared  to  her  as  the  very  ark  of 
romance.  But  at  the  quick  of  her  excitemert  was  something 
which  had  nothing  to  do  with  memory  or  with  childhood  ex- 
cept in  so  far  as  it  signified  the  departure  from  both.  This,  not 
the  hour  of  her  marriage  with  Mario,  was  the  time  of  severance, 
the  final  breaking  of  the  umbilical  cord.  Very  slowly  had  she 
drawn  apart  from  her  mother.  Even  while  she  had  thought 
herself  detached  she  had  really  been  held  and  harried.  But 
now  she  was  removing  her  entire  being  in  an  act  of  irreparable 
rebellion.  And  this  was  the  symbol:  this  laying  of  her  new, 
alien  hands  upon  her  mother's  treasures. 

For  here  were  all  the  little  souvenirs  of  Juley's  life-time, 
most  of  them  valueless  in  themselves,  but  so  precious  to  her 
that  her  children  were  accustomed  to  hold  them  in  reverence. 

Among  the  many  packets  of  letters  and  faded  photographs 
neatly  docketed  and  banded  with  elastic,  that  snapped  at  a 
touch,  Joanna  found  stray  pages  from  an  old  Erskine  journal. 
The  delicately  penned  entries  were  very  affectionate,  "  Our 
sweet  baby  Perdy  cut  her  second  tooth  on  Thursday  of  this 


240  OPEN   THE    DOOR 

week.  Old  Nursie  calls  her  our  c  hen  of  gold,'  " — was  one 
that  caught  Joanna's  eye.  From  further  back  in  the  same 
drawer  came  an  inlaid  cedar  box.  This  was  stuffed  with  tiny 
locks  and  plaits  of  hair,  each  having  been  lovingly  labelled. 
• — "  Our  little  Miranda's  hair  at  two  and  a  half  years.  Sept. 
1846." — "  Darling  Papa's  hair,  at  the  time  of  his  death,  Jan.  3, 
1870." — "  A  piece  of  my  hair  cut  off  during  an  attack  of  brain 
fever  in  Rome,  1860  " — "  Mamma's  hair  as  an  infant."- 
"  Baby  Robert's  hair." — Who,  wondered  Joanna,  was  baby 
Robert?  And  here  was  one  of  her  own  locks  as  a  baby,  fair, 
like  gold  silk,  and  Georgie's  only  a  little  darker,  and  Sholto's 
quite  dark  like  greenish  bronze,  and  Linnet's  like  white  floss. 
How  many  tresses  there  were! 

She  drew  out  her  mother's.  It  was  unlike  the  other  tight 
little  sheaves  of  hair,  being  fine  and  long — full  half  a  yard  long 
and  the  sheen  of  youth  was  upon  it  still.  (Eighteen,  Juley 
had  been,  when  her  father's  passion  for  education  had  brought 
serious  illness  upon  her.)  Joanna  carried  it  lying  silkily  across 
her  extended  hands  to  the  window,  let  the  light  play  on  it, 
kissed  it,  with  sudden,  sorrowful  passion  inhaled  its  pleasant, 
aromatic  odor.  And  there  before  the  dressing-table  mirror 
which  had  so  often  reflected  her  mother's  painful  toilets,  she 
laid  it  against  her  own  light  brown  head.  As  she  had  thought, 
it  was  of  the  very  same  texture  and  color  as  her  own  hair. 

Having  restored  it  tenderly  to  its  place,  her  next  interest 
was  her  mother's  square  old  jewel-case.  A  wedding  present 
this;  big  and  solid,  covered  with  black  Russia  leather  and 
lined  with  bridal  satin.  In  spite  of  her  knowledge  of  the 
contents  Joanna  felt  a  stirring  of  the  old  childish  excitement 
on  opening  it  and  lifting  out  the  trays.  Once  Juley  had  had 
a  diamond  ring  and  some  pearl  ornaments,  presents  from  her 
bridegroom,  but  she  had  lost  these  long  ago;  and  now  there 
remained  only  some  pebble  and  silver  brooches,  a  cameo  or 
two,  a  bunch  of  worn  seals,  a  set  of  beautiful  but  clumsy 
amethysts  which  were  an  Erskine  heirloom,  an  ivory  carved 
fan  with  some  of  the  sticks  broken,  a  silver  vinaigrette  that 
still  smelt  faintly  invigorating,  the  children's  broken  strings 
of  coral — the  girl  went  over  all  these,  fingering  them  with 
a  fresh  curiosity,  but  there  was  nothing  here  she  did  not 
know  by  heart. 

Right  at  the  bottom  of  the  deepest  drawer  however  she  was 
to  come  upon  some  almost  forgotten  possessions. 


OPENTHEDOOR  241 

Here  was  some  bed  linen  too  fine  for  the  household  chest: 
here,  pinned  within  a  towel  was  the  Bannerman  christening- 
robe  with  its  intricate,  wonderful  embroidery  of  thistles  all 
down  the  front.  And  beside  it  were  a  bunch  of  rare  laces 
tied  with  tape  and  an  infant's  scarlet  slipper. 

But  the  real  find  was  a  shawl  which  Joanna  had  never 
seen  before.  Had  she  set  eyes  on  it,  even  in  her  earliest 
childhood,  she  was  sure  she  could  not  have  forgotten  it. 
Folded  up,  it  had  taken  very  little  space  in  the  drawer,  for 
it  was  woven  all  of  silk  thread,  and  its  deep  fringe  was  of 
ivory  colored  silk.  But  the  pulses  of  its  finder  quickened  as 
she  shook  the  foreign  thing  out  into  a  great  gay  square.  It 
more  than  covered  Juley's  double  bed  with  its  rich,  mellowed 
whiteness,  and  there  were  flowers  and  leaves  all  over  it — big 
blotches  of  scarlet  and  yellow  and  blue  flowers,  and  little 
blue-green  leaves  that  interlaced,  and  tendrils  that  were 
purplish,  almost  black,  between. 

When  she  had  looked  her  fill  at  it  Joanna  folded  it  again  and 
put  it  on  the  top  of  a  separate  pile  which  had  been  growing 
steadily  at  one  particular  corner  of  the  bed. 

IX 

On  Friday,  the  day  before  the  vans  were  expected,  Joanna 
told  the  astonished  but  grateful  Janet  that  she  might  sleep 
till  Monday  at  a  sister's  house.  She  would  only  be  asked  to 
come  for  some  hours  to  Collessie  Street  the  next  day.  Lin- 
net had  already  found  a  bed  with  friends,  and  the  Boyds  were 
taking  it  for  granted  that  Joanna  would  come  to  them. 

On  the  Saturday  morning  she  was  very  early  astir.  The 
transcendent  assurance  of  the  preceding  days  still  possessed 
her,  and  she  felt  finely  strung,  alert,  complete  mistress  of 
herself  and  of  those  about  her,  a  perfectly  adjusted  instru- 
ment. 

Up  and  down  stairs  she  followed  the  burdened,  staggering 
men,  carried  out  many  of  the  things  herself,  was  there  ready 
with  a  cloth  when  a  few  drops  of  rain  fell  upon  the  drawing- 
room  cabinet  as  it  stood  on  the  pavement. 

She  was  hovering  on  the  pavement,  inspecting  the  half- 
packed  vans  and  thinking  how  poor  and  undignified  even  the 
most  cherished  pieces  of  furniture  appeared  under  the  open 
sky,  when  Louis  came  up  behind  her,  and  touched  her  and 
spoke. 


242  OPEN   THE    DOOR 

He  was  hungry  and  thirsty  for  a  sight  of  her,  he  said;  and 
his  eyes  bore  out  his  words  as  they  rested  by  turns  on  her 
flushed  face,  her  little  head  which  she  had  bound  from  the  dust 
with  a  green  and  yellow  handkerchief,  her  old  brown  skirt 
half  covered  with  a  black  apron.  Might  he  come  and  see  her 
to-night?  Where  would  she  be?  Would  she  be  alone?  When 
and  where  would  she  ever  be  alone?  There  was  something 
in  his  face  as  he  pressed  her  (she  did  not  take  it  for  shame) 
that  made  him  look  a  little  brutal;  but  his  brutality  was 
something  she  could  exercise.  She  would  be  waiting  for  him 
in  the  evening  at  the  new  house.  Alone?  Yes,  if  it  could  be. 
But  he  must  go  away  now.  When  he  had  gone  she  fled 
indoors  and  stood  for  a  minute  in  one  of  the  empty  rooms, 
very  still  and  white,  with  her  hands  clasped. 

Later,  when  all  was  done,  and  she  and  Janet  were  drink- 
ing a  last  cup  of  tea  in  the  stripped  parlor,  using  the  window- 
sill  as  a  table,  Mamie  Boyd  arrived. 

"  How  fresh  you  do  look !  "  she  exclaimed  as  she  kissed 
Joanna,  "  More  as  if  you  had  been  having  a  holiday  than  a 
flitting!  But  you  must  be  feeling  quite  worn  out  all  the 
same.  I'll  wait  with  you  as  long  as  there's  anything  to  do. 
Mother  says  I'm  not  on  any  account  to  come  home  without 
you." 

While  Mamie  entered  into  a  long  explanation  of  why  she 
had  not  been  able  to  turn  up  earlier,  Joanna  was  in  an  un- 
reasoning terror.  Would  the  Boyds  somehow  coerce  her  into 
coming  to  them?  The  image  was  absurd  but  she  could  see 
herself  being  dragged  by  force  past  the  door  of  the  new  house 
and  over  the  bridge  to  High  Kelvin  Place. 

By  what  excuses  she  managed  presently  to  shake  Mamie  off 
she  could  never  afterwards  remember.  She  did  it  however 
without  giving  any  definite  promise,  and  almost  pushed  her 
too  hospitable  friend  down  the  front  steps.  Soon  afterwards 
Janet  also  departed  having  made  the  feeblest  of  protests. 

Left  to  herself  Joanna  went  slowly  from  room  to  room  of 
the  empty  house  in  a  mute  farewell.  Here,  under  this  roof 
she  had  spent  her  childhood  and  adolescence,  and  in  leaving 
it  she  knew  she  was  leaving  her  first  youth  behind.  She  had 
loved  this  house  as  well  as  hated  it  and  was  prepared  for  some 
emotion  of  melancholy  on  the  occasion  of  departure.  But 
no  such  sentiment  would  rise  in  her.  Her  spirit  had  already 
taken  flight  forward  to  a  riper  phase  of  life,  and  she  was  glad 


OPENTHEDOOR  243 

of  it,  and  only  glad.    Without  a  single  pang  she  took  leave  of 
the  despoiled,  sad  walls. 


At  La  France  Quadrant,  when  the  unloaded  vans  had  driven 
off  with  the  men  asprawl  and  joking  inside,  Joanna  was  able 
at  last  to  shut  the  door  upon  staring  humanity  which  had  all 
day  been  so  interested  hi  her  and  her  belongings.  It  was  a 
relief. 

She  sat  down  on  a  packing-case  in  the  still  crowded  hall. 
The  new  electric  wiring  had  not  yet  been  connected,  and  in  the 
dusk  of  the  spring  evening  the  round  stone  pillars  on  either 
side  of  her  might  have  been  tree-trunks.  The  confused  shad- 
ows from  the  laburnum  outside  were  thrown  on  the  glass  panel 
and  fanlight  of  the  front  door.  She  listened  intently.  The 
house  was  utterly  still,  and  from  outside  she  could  hear  no 
sound  but  the  faint,  determined  rushing  of  the  stream  far  down 
where  it  passed  by  the  flint  mill.  She  was  cut  off  now  from 
the  rest  of  the  world,  remote  and  alone,  waiting  in  a  dense 
forest:  and  she  felt  a  little  afraid. 

But  once  she  had  left  the  hall,  going  to  the  back  of  the 
house  she  began  to  be  busy  as  a  bird  is  busy  with  its  nest. 
Already  in  one  of  the  rooms  each  piece  of  furniture  was 
in  its  place,  the  windows  were  curtained,  and  even  some  rugs 
had  been  unrolled  upon  the  bare  floor.  Now  Joanna  fetched 
fuel  from  the  kitchen,  for  the  evening  was  cool,  almost  frosty, 
and  when  the  fire  had  burned  up  she  drew  the  curtains  and 
began  to  unpack  by  candlelight. 

For  the  last  forty-eight  hours  she  had  been  planning  for 
this.  Every  least  thing  had  been  thought  of  beforehand.  She 
was  of  those  who  ever  desire  material  fitness  and  she  had 
discovered  the  same  desire  in  Louis  also.  It  was  one  of  the 
many  bonds  between  their  natures.  In  a  suit-case  she  had 
put  together  the  few  fami!  •  possessions  which  had  seemed  to 
her  worthy  of  her  lover's  e  e,  and  it  did  not  take  her  long  to 
dispose  these.  The  result  was  far  enough  from  the  perfect 
beauty  she  longed  for,  but  as  she  looked  round  upon  her  work 
she  had  a  strong  feeling  of  pleasure.  In  the  flickering  light  of 
fire  and  candles  it  was  a  room  prepared  for  the  beloved  and 
therefore  lovely.  For  the  first  time  Joanna  was  alive  to  the 
clear  sincerity  of  design  in  the  high  silver  candlesticks  which 
had  been  a  presentation  to  Horatio  Bannerman  from  the  St. 


244  OPEN   THE    DOOR 

jude's  congregation  on  the  twenty-fifth  anniversary  of  his 
ministry — and  the  foreign  shawl,  spread  as  a  coverlet  upon  the 
wide  mahogany  couch  gave  a  glamor. 

Then,  putting  on  her  hat,  and  fingering  the  latch-key  in 
her  pocket  and  to  be  quite  sure  she  had  it  safe,  she  went  out  to 
the  shops. 

More  than  once  during  her  errands  there  she  asked  herself 
what  she  was  doing.  She  had  no  remembrance  of  having 
planned  this.  It  was  as  though  she  were  blindly  carrying  out 
the  orders  of  another.  But  in  one  place  there  was  a  clock  which 
pointed  to  half-past  seven,  and  straight  on  that  panic  seized 
her.  Louis,  if  he  got  no  further  message,  was  to  be  with  her 
soon  after  eight,  to  sup  with  her.  This  sudden  knowledge,  as 
it  seemed,  sent  her  hastening  toward  home  again.  The  par- 
cels she  had  bought  kept  slipping  precariously  through  her 
trembling  fingers. 

"  I  can  still  change  my  mind,"  she  told  herself  as  she  plod- 
ded back  in  an  agony  to  the  house, — "  or  something  may  have 
prevented  him  so  that  he  won't  come — in  any  case  I  have  only 
to  tell  him  to  go,"  and  a  wild  aloof  amusement  shot  through 
her  at  the  thought  that  she  might  simply  not  open  the  door 
if  he  came. 

But  on  her  return  to  the  Quadrant  where  the  house  was  the 
last  in  a  short,  blind  row,  she  saw  that  some  one  stood  there. 
Her  heart  thudded  sickly.  In  spite  of  the  uncertain  light, 
she  recognized  the  figure  of  Mrs.  Boyd,  Mrs.  Boyd! 

She  had  only  to  walk  on,  to  call  out,  and  she  was  saved! 
But  she  neither  spoke  nor  went  forward.  Instead  -she  re- 
treated with  bird-like  swiftness  into  a  lane  immediately  upon 
her  right,  and  there  waited  and  watched,  thanking  the  dim 
stars  that  the  arrival  had  been  during  her  absence  from  the 
house.  Had  she  been  in  she  must  have  been  caught. 

Meanwhile  the  old  lady,  after  gazing  reproachfully  at  the 
dark  windows  from  the  pavement,  reascended  the  steps  and 
rang  the  door-bell  with  vigor.  Joanna  heard  it  screech  in 
its  socket,  once,  twice;  and  between  while  she  heard  the  visitor's 
knuckles  rapping  sharply  upon  the  glass  pane  of  the  door. 
Almost  five  minutes  passed,  and  the  girl  in  hiding,  though 
her  reason  told  her  it  was  merely  a  question  of  waiting,  was 
half  dead  with  fear. 

At  last  Mrs.  Boyd  gave  it  up  and  walked  slowly  away,  pass- 
ing the  nearer  end  of  Joanna's  lane,  and  now  and  then  looking 


OPEN   THE    DOOR  245 

back  as  if  she  still  expected  the  house  to  give  some  sign.  And 
Joanna  pressed  her  body  closer  against  the  wall  and  kept  quite 
still. 

No  sooner  had  she  drawn  a  breath  freely,  than  heavy  foot- 
steps coming  up  the  lane  from  the  far  side  struck  a  fresh 
terror  into  her.  It  was  a  policeman.  He  looked  curiously 
at  her  as  he  passed,  only  seeing  her  face  as  a  pale  triangle  be- 
neath her  hat,  and  under  his  official  glance  she  clutched  her 
purchases  as  if  they  were  stolen  goods.  Her  fingers  were 
stiff  with  the  dragging  strings,  and  the  wet  stalks  of  a  bunch 
of  anemones  had  soaked  through  her  gloves. 

By  this  time,  however,  she  knew  that  Mrs.  Boyd  must  be 
well  round  the  corner,  so  she  made  bold  to  leave  the  lane.  The 
policeman  on  burly  guard  at  the  mouth  of  it  followed  her  move- 
ments furtively  and  she  could  hardly  endure  it.  She  had  to 
drop  her  parcels  on  the  outside  mat  as  she  fumbled  with  chilled 
hands  for  the  latch-key.  But  at  last  she  was  in,  and  at  once 
she  sank  down  in  security. 

Vanished  now  was  her  mirage  of  serenity,  gone  her  exhilara- 
tion. She  felt  stripped,  dislocated,  defenceless.  And  it  was 
Louis  who  had  brought  her  to  this!  She  hated  and  blamed 
him  bitterly. 

But  immediately  upon  her  blame  rose  the  clear,  unsum- 
moned  memory  of  his  face  as  she  had  first  seen  it.  His  face 
swam  up  at  her  out  of  the  fog  of  reproachful  thought,  and  under 
his  teasing  smile  she  read  as  never  before  his  sadness  and 
dissatisfaction. 

Thought  followed  thought  then  that  softened  and  calmed 
her.  Having  put  her  anemones  in  water  she  remembered 
that  she  had  eaten  scarcely  anything  since  the  morning.  She 
must  have  food  at  once  and  a  change  of  clothes,  must  wash 
the  dust  and  weariness  from  her  skin. 

Before  going  out  she  had  put  on  a  kettle  which  now  boiled 
noisily.  The  firelit  room  was  peaceful,  and  she  devoured  some 
sandwiches  with  relish. 

She  was  standing  in  the  bathroom  with  her  dress  off,  dry- 
ing her  neck  and  arms  all  fresh  from  the  steaming  water 
when  the  front  door  bell  rang.  She  stared  reassuringly  up 
at  herself  in  the  little  fixed  mirror  over  the  basin,  for  her 
heart  seemed  to  have  stopped.  She  heard  the  sound  of  her 
own  blood  winnowing  in  her  ears,  saw  her  eyes  dilated  and 
shining.  And  in  that  instant  she  knew  she  had  come  from 


246  OPEN   THE    DOOR 

marriage  immune;  she  was  giving  herself  as  a  sealed  and 
virgin  fountain  into  the  hands  of  Louis.  He,  a  man,  might 
never  know  it,  but  it  was  true,  and  she  was  glad. 

Flying  back  as  she  was,  in  her  white  petticoat  and  little 
white,  sleeveless  under-bodice,  to  the  firelit  room,  she 
snatched  the  shawl  off  the  couch  and  wrapped  herself  in  it 
hurriedly.  The  bell  in  the  basement  pealed  a  second  time. 
That  it  should  sound  a  third  time  was  not  to  be  borne.  A 
gay  figure,  she  sped  across  the  dark  hall.  Noiseless  she  went 
on  stocking  foot,  trailing  the  long  white  fringes  of  the  shawl 
behind  her. 

Yes,  it  was  he!  He  had  taken  off  his  hat.  As  Joanna 
darted  forward  between  the  pillars  which  were  like  the  trunks 
of  beech-trees,  she  could  see  his  shadow  on  the  glass  of  the 
door.  Against  the  thread-like,  waving  tangle  of  the  laburnum, 
his  head  showed  like  a  satyr's,  eager  and  suffering.  His 
suffering  pierced  her  breast  like  a  joyous  spear. 

She  opened  to  him,  and  in  a  close,  speechless  embrace  they 
leaned  against  the  inner  side  of  the  door  till  the  catch  went 
home.  Louis  knew  without  asking  that  they  were  alone  to- 
gether in  the  house. 

But  Joanna,  drawing  back  for  a  moment,  saw  that  in  his 
face,  which  she  would  never  quite  forget  or  forgive,  a  look 
of  shame.  In  spite  of  all  he  had  said  to  her,  he  was  ashamed. 
There  it  was  in  his  face  warring  with  his  delight,  and  by  this 
dastard  shame  of  his  she  herself  for  the  moment  was  be- 
trayed, was  besmirched.  True,  it  was  only  for  a  moment. 
In  the  radiance  of  her  welcome  and  her  giving  the  deadly 
thing  passed  from  him.  He  became  free,  simple,  exultant  as  her- 
self.  Still  she  had  seen  it;  and  all  night  it  lurked  like  a  foul 
wolf  outside  the  room  she  had  prepared,  the  glowing  secret 
room  where  the  lovers  were  creatures  of  pure  magic  to  each 
other. 

Later,  when  she  lay  at  rest  in  his  hands,  Joanna,  still  awake, 
was  lapped  strangely  about  by  thoughts  of  death.  Now  death 
showed  as  beautiful  to  her  as  life,  life  as  terrible  as  death. 
And  she  seemed  to  hold  the  secret  of  existence  between  her 
hollowed  palms.  It  was  a  secret  at  once  so  stupendous  and 
so  simple  that  she  wondered  she  had  been  so  long  of  finding 
it  out. 

But  soon  her  thoughts  became  confused,  incongruous.  The 
glowing  coals  crumbled  downwards  on  the  hearth  with  a  quiet, 


OPENTHEDOOR  247 

grating  sound.  The  ceiling  leapt  to  an  arch  of  guarding  flame. 
Flames  like  sentinels  sprang  into  being  around  the  walls. 
They  kept  all  shameful  wolves  away  with  their  brandished 
swords.  Whatever  was  to  come  after,  she  and  Louis  could 
sleep  unscathed  here.  This  innermost  chamber,  the  very 
kernel  of  fire  was  their  safe  hiding  place. 


CHAPTER  V 


WHAT  followed  was  a  path  into  the  unknown  and  a  path 
unexpectedly  solitary. 

It  surprised,  at  first  it  frightened  her  that  she  was  to  get 
so  little  help  from  Louis.  Without  a  doubt  his  presumed 
greater  knowledge  of  life  had  been  one  of  the  powerful  ele- 
ments attracting  her  to  him.  With  his  advantages  of  age, 
experience,  circumstances,  he  seemed  to  her  to  move  surely 
in  that  fabulous  world  of  mammon  for  which  she  had  so 
hungered  as  a  child  and  had  not  yet  attained.  For  her  he 
personified  not  only  that  for  which  the  little  green  door  in 
the  wall  of  La  Porziuncola  had  stood  as  the  symbol,  but  also 
the  finely  decked  luncheon  table  of  Aunt  Georgina.  And  be- 
tween these  two  extremes  of  illicit  adventure  and  conventional 
elegance  (utterly  dependent  as  they  are  one  upon  the  other) 
lay  the  whole  wondrous  realm  which  is  Society,  which 
is  aestheticism,  which  is  history,  which  is  the  multi-colored, 
solid-seeming  fruit  of  human  civilization.  For  a  complexity 
of  reasons,  provincial  and  individual,  the  girl  had  always  felt 
herself  deprived  of  this  traditional  world.  Now  in  Louis  she 
was  to  possess  it. 

Yet  they  had  not  been  lovers  a  week  before  she  knew  this 
same  Louis  powerless  to  direct  their  love's  course.  It  was 
like  being  at  sea  with  a  companion  whose  sole  idea  of  sea- 
manship was  to  let  drift.  She  could  not  easily  grasp  what 
was  the  truth,  that  to  Louis  also,  because  of  her  being  as  she 
was,  their  situation  was  essentially  without  precedent.  Still 
less  did  she  understand — albeit  she  was  compelled  to  act 
upon  it — the  curious  fact  that  Louis  was  clutching  like  a 
drowning  man  at  her  spiritual  certitude.  It  was  essentially 
the  same  movement  as  that  made  thirty  years  earlier  by 
Sholto  her  father  towards  Juley  her  mother. 

But  if  Louis  in  himself  was  Joanna's  fascinating  symbol 
for  the  greatly  coveted  world  of  mammon  down  the  ages, 
there  was  that  in  the  contigencies  of  their  coming  together 

348 


OPENTHEDOOR  249 

which  answered  with  equal  strength  to  the  opposite  need  of 
her  nature.  He  was  not  merely  the  fruit,  he  was  forbidden: 
therefore  in  partaking  she  gratified  her  lust  for  rebellion  and 
for  sacrifice,  for  rejection  of  and  by  the  world.  This  it  was 
which  had  stirred  in  her  long  ago  when  she  kissed  the  blind 
woman.  But  now  the  two  opposing  passions,  the  high  bar- 
barian pride  of  life  and  the  deep  Christian  pride  of  humili- 
ation, were  mounting  together  to  fulfilment.  All  the  long 
contact  with  her  lover  was  colored  by  them.  It  was  the  first 
that  held  sway  over  her  imagination.  It  was  the  second  that 
vitally  governed  her  actions.  The  second  too  insinuated  itself 
like  some  exquisite  drug  into  every  sensual  abandonment 
(not  for  nothing  is  it  that  the  most  desperate  of  sinners  are 
the  quickest  to  comprehend  Christ's  message). 

And  thus  from  the  beginning  she  was  careless  of  discovery. 
She  wished  if  possible  to  spare  her  mother,  and  to  this  end, 
as  also  for  convenience,  could  lie  and  scheme  without  scruple. 
But  really  she  was  indifferent  to  outside  opinion,  and  it  was 
probably  this  indifference  that  was  answerable  for  the  unfail- 
ing success  of  her  schemes  and  her  lies.  Confidences  apart, 
if  one  is  at  no  pains  to  keep  the  truth  from  people  they  will 
scarcely  ever  suspect  it. 

True,  there  was  something  in  Carl  Nilsson's  looks  that  be- 
trayed him  as  a  possible  exception.  But  of  this  Joanna  was 
glad.  She  often  longed  to  speak  to  him  of  her  life  and  her 
strange  solitude;  but  his  own  descretion  kept  her  mouth  shut. 
Phemie  she  would  have  told,  had  Phemie  been  in  Glasgow; 
but  the  information  could  not  be  committed  to  writing,  and 
there  was  no  one  else  in  whom  she  wanted  to  confide. 

In  the  absence  of  human  counsellors  she  instinctively  tried 
prayer.  For  a  time  it  would  often  happen  that  while  the 
mother  was  kneeling  by  her  bedside,  the  daughter  knelt  also 
by  hers,  only  a  thin  wall  of  lath  and  plaster  dividing  them 
as  they  sought  along  the  same  road  for  guidance  and  strength. 
And  without  doubt  strength  was  given  her — of  a  kind.  In- 
variably she  rose  from  her  prayers  happier,  more  serene,  with 
reinforced  endurance.  But  it  was  a  sacrificial,  deathly  endur- 
ance, full  of  the  exaltation  of  humility,  exuding  tenderness, 
pity  and  forgiveness  towards  Louis.  And  though  it  lifted 
and  puffed  up  her  spirit,  somehow  Joanna  knew  it  was  not 
good.  She  knew  that  such  praying  was  a  subtle  indulgence 
and  intoxication  that  she  were  better  to  abstain  from.  Some 


250  OPENTHEDOOR 

day  she  might  learn  another  way  of  prayer.  Meanwhile 
she  thought  she  had  gained  a  greater  understanding  of  her 
mother's  daily  failure. 

Probing  for  help  in  other  directions,  the  girl  now  applied 
herself  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  with  real  eagerness  to  the 
world  of  books.  Not  till  now  had  she  apprehended  the  vital 
relation  between  that  world  and  the. world  of  actuality.  And 
as  it  came  home  to  her  like  a  startling  discovery  she  took  to 
searching  out  in  novels  and  biographies  the  cases  that  had 
anything  in  common  with  hers. 

Unluckily  the  men  and  women  in  print  were  either  so  much 
nobler  than  Louis  and  she,  or  so  much  more  depraved,  or  their 
circumstances  were  so  entirely  different,  that  their  experience 
gave  little  help.  She  awoke  in  the  process,  however,  to  what 
had  scarcely  existed  for  her  before — human  character  as 
distinguished  from  elementary  emotions.  It  was  one  of  Pen- 
der's  fads  that  he  could  compose  with  greater  freedom  as 
well  as  more  concentration  if  some  one  read  aloud  while  he 
worked;  and  Joanna,  delighted  by  every  new  use  he  found 
for  her,  grew  apt  in  the  choice  of  books  for  that  purpose.  He 
liked  her  voice,  was  soothed  by  it,  and  often  for  long  stretches 
she  would  hardly  know  how  far  any  of  the  sense  was  reach- 
ing him  through  his  primary  absorption.  But  she  was  always 
re-assured  in  time  by  some  sceptical  or  approving  interjection. 
Best  of  all  she  was  pleased  when  she  could  lead  him  on  to  the 
eager  discussion  of  some  point  of  conduct.  They  quarrelled 
most  deeply  over  tragedy. 

"  People  are  like  that,"  was  his  shrugging  comment  on  the 
catastrophe  in  Anna  Karenina:  and  he  only  smiled  and  went 
on  painting  when  Joanna,  with  a  whitening  face,  insisted  that 
Anna  could  have  saved  the  situation. 

That  was  in  the  Carmunnock  studio,  now  their  securest 
meeting  place.  It  was  for  their  hours  together  there  that 
Joanna  particularly  lived.  Louis  had  taken  it  on  a  yearly 
tenancy;  for  though  he  went  often  to  London  and  abroad, 
staying  away  for  months  on  end,  Glasgow  had  for  the  time 
become  his  working  head-quarters.  The  first  panel  and  lunette 
in  the  City  Chambers  were  finished  some  while  ago,  it  was 
true,  and  it  seemed  doubtful  whether  he  would  be  asked 
to  do  others  there;  but  to  his  amused  pleasure  a  brewer  with 
a  castle  on  Loch  Lomond  had  commissioned  him  (having  seen 
the  panel)  to  decorate  the  ancestral  billiard-room.  Between 


OPENTHEDOOR  251 

whiles  he  painted  some  portraits  of  Glasgow  people  (includ- 
ing Mrs.  Tullis,  of  whom  Joanna  was  secretly  jealous,  quite 
without  cause)  and  in  these  portraits  he  experimented  for  the 
first  time  in  realism.  Whenever  he  wanted  her,  Joanna  sat 
to  him. 

She  lived  for  their  hours  together,  but  she  lived — at  any 
rate  during  that  first  year — in  trepidation. 

"  My  dear  one!  How  nice  you  look  to-day!  " — If  that  were 
his  greeting  all  was  well.  Louis  would  then  be  a  god  to  her 
and  a  revelation.  She  loved  the  way  he  would  speak  of  the 
wonders  of  the  body. — "  Every  inch  of  you  full  of  pores  and 
ducts  and  odds  and  ends  of  things  to  make  you  live,"  as  he 
put  it.  And  he  made  her  see  what  a  marvel  of  balance  it 
was  that  one  could  stand  upright.  "  I  think  myself,  you 
know,"  he  had  told  her  one  day,  looking  at  her  very  boyishly, 
"  that  a  man  has  no  right  to  go  near  a  woman  unless  he  feels, 
for  the  moment  at  least,  that  she's  a  goddess.  I  certainly  feel 
so  for  you.  On  my  word,  Joanna,  every  time  we  meet  it  is  a 
fresh  adventure  and  you  show  me  a  new  charm." 

But  it  was  not  always  like  this  with  them.  Joanna  had 
learned  to  search  his  face  swiftly  as  they  met,  and  she  kept 
the  ears  of  a  newt  for  his  first  utterance.  She  soon  came  to 
know  and  dread  the  comprehensive,  slightly  incredulous  glance 
with  which  he  could  sum  her  up  afresh.  An  unfortunate 
hat  at  such  times  could  make  him,  it  almost  seemed,  revise 
his  whole  opinion  of  her.  And  Joanna  was  not  always  happy 
in  her  hats.  Once,  in  desperation  at  the  prospect  of  a  spoiled 
afternoon  which  she  had  read  in  his  cool  eyes,  she  had  tossed 
the  offending  thing  of  straw  and  flowers  high  into  a  tree  in 
the  park  where  they  had  just  met.  But  instead  of  sticking 
there,  it  had  tumbled  from  branch  to  branch  and  down  into 
the  dust  at  their  feet.  And  to  her  inexpressible  mortification 
Louis,  taking  no  pains  to  hide  his  annoyance,  had  made  her 
put  it  on  again. 

And  later  on  that  same  day  he  had  ground  her  mercilessly 
between  the  mill-stones  of  his  self-distrust  and  his  rancor 
against  life. 

"  Though  I  loathe  things  as  they  are,  he  confessed  "  I 
don't  really  know  what  I  want — what  kind  of  life." 

Already  that  afternoon  he  had  spat  contempt  at  his  work 
and  harped  on  his  middle-agedness  with  a  peculiar  disgust 
that  sent  despair  like  a  shudder  through  Joanna's  very  flesh. 


252  OPENTHEDOOR 

Now,  as  his  deepset  bitterness  welled  up  in  him,  he  struck 
out  at  her  and  at  himself  with  equal  savagery. 

"  I  suppose  I'm  a  coward,"  he  girded.  "  Well,  what's  to 
be  done  about  it?  If  it's  a  hero  you  want,  better  have  noth- 
ing more  to  do  with  me.  It  isn't  too  late.  I've  really  done 
you  no  harm,  have  I?  My  advice  to  you  is — leave  the  old 
ship  in  time.  Take  a  lesson  from  the  rats,  my  dear.  The 
worst  of  it  is  you  are  not  of  the  rat  tribe.  You'd  stick  to  me, 
I  do  believe.  Why  are  you  so  good?  I  don't  think  I  want 
you  to  be  so  good.  It  only  makes  things  worse  for  me." 

By  experience  Joanna  knew  that  whatever  she  might  say 
would  be  wrong  in  reply  to  this  outburst;  so  she  kept  silent. 
It  was  in  these  tormented  hours  that  she  loved  Louis  most 
poignantly.  But  she  was  like  a  mother  quite  alone  with  a 
sick,  deliriously  fractious  child  when  there  is  no  doctor  within 
miles.  She  would  have  done  or  given  anything  to  restore 
him,  would  have  foregone  her  sex  if  that  had  been  possible 
(and  sometimes  she  had  the  strange  feeling  that  he  desired 
this  of  her);  but  she  could  not  tell  his  malady,  and  so  was 
helpless. 

When  they  had  parted  thus,  she  would  wander  in  a  limbo 
of  blind  and  suffering  endurance  till  their  next  meeting.  Where 
was  it,  she  questioned  herself,  that  she  failed  him?  And 
again,  how  could  she  do  aught  but  fail  him  so  long  as  he 
would  not  take  her  wholly,  wholly  give  himself?  Engirdled 
by  the  flames  of  La  France  Quadrant  they  had  rushed  together 
to  assuage  their  immediate,  mutual  need,  and  she  had  fan- 
cied herself  at  last  possessed.  But  with  the  dawn  of  the  next 
day  she  had  known  that  Louis  no  more  than  Bob,  no  more 
than  Mario,  had  made  her  his.  Nor  had  he  committed  him- 
self to  her.  (This,  though  their  love  had  emerged  only  the 
sweeter  and  the  freer  from  that  first  embrace.)  Dimly  she 
realized  that  such  a  union  as  she  desired  beyond  all  desires  was 
what  her  mother  had  in  vain  craved  from  her  father  through 
all  the  years  of  a  marriage  physically  fruitful.  Was  it  some- 
thing that  only  women  desire?  Did  men  fear  and  avoid  the 
consummation  of  spirit  it  was  bound  to  bring?  Or  was  it, 
whispered  the  sceptic  in  her,  a  lovely  delusion?  There  were, 
one  must  believe,  certain  false  dreams — will  o'  the  wisps — 
which  could  lead  the  spirit  disastrously  astray.  Was  this 
such  a  dream? 

But  no!     The  absolute  denial  at  least  must  be  set  aside. 


OPEN   THE    DOOR  253 

For  there  was  Phemie's  achievement  with  the  unlikely  Jim- 
mie.  Joanna  could  not  tell  how  the  knowledge  had  come  to 
her  that  Phemie  and  Jimmie  possessed  the  valid  promise  of 
what  she  herself  desired.  But  there  it  was.  She  was  sure  of 
it.  Could  it  be  simply  that  it  was  a  possession  not  given  to 
such  as  herself,  or  to  such  as  her  mother? 

All  these  wistful  questionings,  however,  were  apt  to  be  dis- 
sipated by  the  next  meeting,  when  Louis  would  be  gay,  lov- 
ing, apparently  at  peace  *with  the  world.  It  seemed  to 
Joanna  then  that  if  she  were  to  suffer  for  ever,  it  would  be 
light  payment  for  the  treasure  he  poured  out  to  her.  Then 
his  superior  age,  his  sex,  his  mind,  were  things  for  her  to 
worship,  not  to  wrestle  with.  She  loved  it  that  his  judge- 
ments made  her  own  seem  petty  and  at  fault,  that  he  was 
kinder  to  human  nature,  more  tolerant  than  she. 

Also  his  richness  of  talent  filled  her  with  admiration.  He 
had  the  tricks  of  music  and  of  mimicry — could  play  by  ear 
upon  the  piano  with  a  sure  delicate  touch,  could  make  his 
beloved  rock  with  laughter  by  his  beautifully  sensitive  imita- 
tion of  a  penguin  in  a  hurry. 

Or  he  would  improvise  a  super-solemn  dialogue  on  ART 
between  Mrs.  Lovatt  and  Val  Plummer.  His  power  of  obser- 
vation alone  was  a  miracle  to  Joanna.  During  their  very 
first  meeting,  he  had  shocked  her  by  his  oblivions.  Now  she 
became  fully  awake  to  her  own  dream-wrapt  egoism.  To 
please  him — and  in  emulation  too — she  had  begun  to  notice, 
to  discover  as  if  with  new  eyes  the  little,  significant  things 
of  daily  life.  Also  a  sense  of  humor,  long  dormant,  was  prick- 
ing up  in  her  like  green  blades  in  spring. 

Was  not  this  in  itself  a  kind  of  consummation?  It  was 
certainly  growth.  And  it  brought  with  it  so  strong  a  sense 
of  well-being  that  Joanna,  sunning  her  unfolding  petals,  easily 
doubted  the  conclusions  of  sadder  hours.  Indeed  the  joy 
of  a  purely  intellectual  flowering  is  savored  all  the  more  keenly 
because  of  the  dark,  unregarded  fruits  of  death  which  are 
quietly  ripening  alongside. 

n 

Joanna  and  Linnet  had  formed  one  of  those  fluctuating 
friendships  which  may  blossom  at  any  time  between  two  of 
the  same  family  especially  when  conditions  in  that  family 
are  becoming  more  and  more  impossible,  and  complete  disin- 


254  OPENTHEDOOR 

tegration  is  at  hand.  The  feeling  between  them  had  budded 
on  that  morning  of  Georgie's  arrival,  in  the  moment  of  dis- 
may when  Joanna  had  seen  Linnet  come  out  rumpled  and  lack- 
lustre from  his  bedroom.  Then  during  the  hours  of  waiting 
on  the  quay,  when  they  had  shared  the  burden  of  their  mother, 
the  two  had  sent  out  signals  to  each  other,  signals  of  claim 
and  distress,  as  might  two  sailors  marooned  upon  neighbor- 
ing islands. 

For  a  while,  however,  nothing  had  come  of  it.  Joanna  was 
far  too  much  absorbed  in  her  love,  and  her  energies  were  too 
completely  engaged  in  withstanding  her  lover's  strange,  re- 
current exhaustions,  to  have  anything  to  spare  for  her  brother. 

Yet  is  was  through  Louis  that  in  due  time  the  fleeting 
friendship  was  brought  to  flower. 

They  had  been  lovers  a  year,  and  Joanna  was  suffering  from 
one  of  Louis's  long  absences,  when  she  began  with  all  the  vig- 
or of  her  awakened  faculties,  to  handle  a  situation  which  till 
now  had  found  her  quite  at  its  mercy.  Of  late  something 
different  from  endurance  (either  of  the  stoical  or  the  Christian 
variety)  had  stiffened  itself  in  her.  She  knew  that  if  she  could 
not  bring  about  a  change  between  Louis  and  herself  misery 
must  ensue  for  both.  And  all  that  was  most  robust  in  her 
nature  rose  in  a  sudden  demand  for  happiness,  for  happiness 
and  fair  play. 

At  the  moment  she  was  certainly  miserable.  It  was  the 
seventh  time  that  Louis  by  his  going  had  left  her  to  an 
empty  existence  in  Glasgow.  That  was  what  it  had  come  to. 
Existence  without  him  was  a  mere  shell,  a  semblance,  a  wait- 
ing. Yet  it  appeared  from  his  letters,  that  he  all  the  while 
was  contriving  to  lead  a  full  enough,  real  enough  life  away  from 
her.  He  spoke  torturingly  of  his  boys  and  their  doings,  of 
pleasant  hours  passed  with  friends,  of  successful  parties  in 
the  newly  decorated  studio  at  Campden  Hill.  True,  he  wrote 
that  things  were  only  endurable  because  of  her  being  there 
in  the  background,  that  they  would  be  intolerable  were 
it  not  for  the  thought  of  their  next  meeting.  And  Joanna 
was  happy  in  knowing  that  he  meant  what  he  said.  But  it 
was  not  enough.  Besides,  if  she  in  return  were  to  write  of 
her  hideous  loneliness,  he  would  be  sure  to  reply  in  the  dis- 
tressed and  powerless  tone  which  she  most  dreaded.  His 
only  suggestion — made  for  the  hundredth  time- — would  be  that 
she  should  come  to  London  to  live,  as  there  he  thought  things 


OPENTHEDOOR  255 

would  be  easier  for  them  both.  As  if  she  herself  were  not 
working  towards  London  incessantly!  But  it  would  take 
time  as  he  knew.  He  knew  she  had  promised  her  mother 
to  stay  at  home  for  at  least  another  year  until  some  satisfac- 
tory household  arrangement  could  be  come  by.  Meanwhile 
she  needed  other  comfort  than  that  they  should  take  things 
as  they  came,  remain  cheerful  in  absence,  make  the  best  of 
their  hours  together. 

It  wasn't  fair!  Joanna  had  accepted  it,  borne  with  it,  even 
hugged  it  for  twelve  months  and  more.  But  it  wasn't  fair! 
With  a  single  irrevocable  movement  her  characteristic  sense 
of  balance  righted  her! 

And  upon  that  conviction  followed  a  definite  withdrawal  of 
her  tenderest  self  from  Louis.  If  he  would  not  have  love 
then  let  it  be  war.  It  was  curious  how  her  instinctive  pro- 
cedure tallied  outwardly  with  his  unwelcome  advice.  She 
set  about  the  separate,  defiant  enrichment  of  her  own 
life. 

And  this  was  where  Linnet,  among  other  things,  came  in. 

For  in  that  separate,  defiant  enrichment  of  hers  to  which 
Louis  had  driven  her,  Joanna  grasped  at  any  emotional 
activity  that  offered. 

She  had  known  that  Linnet  had  a  lot  of  friends  whom  he 
never  brought  home,  though  it  was  with  them  he  spent  his 
spare  time  and  all  his  holidays.  She  had  known  this,  but  it 
had  not  concerned  her.  Now,  as  she  hardened  self-defen- 
sively  towards  Louis,  her  shoot  of  tenderness  for  Linnet  was 
enlarged.  For  the  first  time  she  really  listened,  encoura- 
ging his  confidence,  and  in  so  doing  became  in  some  measure 
involved.  It  was  clear  that  her  brother  and  she  and  Louis 
all  suffered  from  the  same  manie  de  la  grandeur.  The  form 
only  was  different  with  Linnet. 

All  his  friends  were  newly-rich.  The  girls  were  solidly 
material  in  their  worldliness  and  inclined  to  be  fast.  The 
young  men  drank  champagne  with  their  luncheon  at  the 
"  North  British,"  made  a  point  of  being  seen  about  with  the 
musical  comedy  star  of  the  moment  from  London,  and  had 
always  some  "gemble  "  or  other  on  hand  at  the  Stock  Ex- 
change. They  lived  in  suburban  villas  and  had  other  villas 
at  the  coast.  They  kept  motors  and  racing  yachts.  To 
Joanna  their  lives  appeared  ugly  and  on  the  whole  vapid; 
but  to  her  new  powers  of  observation  nothing  human  came 


256  OPENTHEDOOR 

amiss.  In  some  curious  way  too  the  mere  fact  of  their  wealth 
served  her  with  Louis.  Never  meeting  them,  he  learned  of  their 
doings  only  through  Joanna's  talk  and  letters,  and  he  was 
childishly  impressed  and  perturbed  by  the  growing  incident 
in  her  life  apart  from  himself. 

But  what  interested  her  to  the  point  of  anxiety  was  the 
transformed  Linnet  she  now  saw.  It  was  evident  that  the 
Howdens,  the  Rintouls,  the  Bells  and  the  rest  (there  were 
not  above  six  families  in  this  particular  set)  could  not  quite 
accept  young  Bannerman  ("  Linty "  as  they  called  him) 
as  one  of  themselves.  True,  he  dressed  like  them,  like  them 
wore  his  hat  well  back  on  his  head,  and  shared  in  all  their 
pursuits.  But  he  was  never  able  to  invite  them  to  his  house, 
and  always  in  his  background  there  was  the  consciousness  of  a 
mother  eccentric  in  ways  prohibitive  to  the  Bells,  the  Rintouls, 
and  the  Howdens.  Sc  it  had  come  that  Linnet,  himself 
excruciatingly  subject  to  his  disabilities,  had  taken  the  only 
way  open  to  his  nature.  He  had  traded  on  the  family  eccen- 
tricity, and  in  the  circle  he  desired  to  enter,  had  constituted 
himself  as  clown.  He  had  only  to  meet  one  of  his  gay  friends, 
Joanna  noticed,  to  be  electrified  into  an  almost  frightening 
animation.  Her  heart  ached  for  him  as  she  watched  him  wave 
his  arms  about,  and  listened  to  his  outrageous  speeches.  But 
what  touched  her  to  something  deeper  than  pity  was  the  un- 
conscious isolation  and  contempt  that  lay  beneath  his  fooling. 
He  had  succeeded  in  his  aim.  His  friends  rewarded  his  queer 
physical  abandonment  with  laughter  and  a  special  kind  of 
affection  that  apparently  gratified  him.  He  was  both  popu- 
lar and  privileged.  But  his  sister  descerned  in  him  something 
of  the  wistful,  increative  solitude  which  she  had  obscurely  felt 
in  her  popular  father.  "  A  queer  fish  "  his  friends  called  him, 
and  it  was  so  he  liked  to  think  of  himself.  But  as  yet 
he  had  no  being  save  in  the  shoal,  and  thus,  not  belonging 
there,  had  less  being  than  they. 

On  his  tentative  introduction  of  Joanna,  Linnet  took  a 
slightly  altered  place  hi  his  friend's  estimation  and  conse- 
quently in  his  own. 

She  was  "  uncommon  looking,"  said  the  girls,  and  one  of 
the  Howden  boys  went  so  far  as  to  fall  in  love  with  her  for 
a  whole  fortnight.  She  tried  to  believe  herself  amused  by 
this  new.  phase  of  life,  threw  herself  into  it,  and  had  the 
momentary  satisfaction  of  rousing  Fender's  possessive  instincts. 


OPENTHEDOOR  257 

But  it  could  not  last  long.  Before  many  weeks  had  passed 
she  knew  that  Linnet  was  the  only  one  among  her  new  ac- 
quaintances to  claim  her  sympathy,  and  the  mushroom  growth 
of  her  intimacy  with  the  Howdens,  the  Bells  and  the  Rintouls 
died  rapidly  away. 

After  all  there  were  other  things  and  far  less  tiresome  that 
would  answer  the  same  end. 

There  was  her  work.  She  had  discovered  that  Louis  took 
an  odd  pride  in  her  capacity  to  earn  any  money  whatsoever. 
Accordingly  she  set  herself  to  earn  more,  and  soon  with  her 
fashion  plates,  and  an  evening  class  for  teachers  which  she 
took  twice  a  week  at  the  School  of  Art  she  was  making  from 
£5  to  £10  a  month.  This  had  the  added  advantage  of  bring- 
ing London  nearer.  Not  that  she  had  started  saving  as  yet 
for  that  end.  To  Juley's  grief  all  her  daughter's  money  went, 
with  an  increasing  extravagance  of  ideas,  on  self  adornment. 
Nothing  at  this  time  was  too  good  for  Joanna,  and  she  became 
noticeably  elegant  in  her  dress.  Poor  Juley  had  long  and 
desperate  confabulations  with  Eva  Gedge  over  the  child's 
growing  worldly-mindedness. 

m 

A  happier  thing  came  when  Carl  Nilsson  one  day  suggested 
that  Joanna  should  go  riding  with  him.  In  her  immediate, 
joyful  agreement  she  certainly  had  Louis  again  in  mind,  but 
she  had  also  in  mind  her  beloved  rough-coated  pony  of  the 
Duntarvie  days.  The  idea  in  itself,  that  is,  was  congenial. 
Here  was  something  far  better  worth  spending  one's  money 
upon  than  anything  to  be  had  in  the  shops.  And  extrava- 
gance in  clothing  one's  body  appeared  suddenly  as  a  bore 
and  a  vulgarity  to  be  dropped  with  Linnet's  friends. 

And  after  a  few  lessons  in  the  great  brown-befogged  riding 
school  which  smelt  of  tan  and  ammonia,  and  echoed  like  a 
bath  with  raised  voices  and  the  thud  of  hoofs,  Joanna  became 
a  good  enough  horse-woman.  As  she  hastened  to  the  mount- 
ing place  her  heart  would  flutter  in  her  breast  with  delight. 
Her  shining  face  on  horseback  often  made  Nilsson  look  at 
her  with  his  sidelong  inquisitive  gaze  that  was  yet  all  friend- 
liness, but  when  she  asked  him  what  was  wrong  he  would 
only  smile,  praise  her  seat,  and  watch  her  cheeks  brighten 
still  more. 

Henceforward  she  had  few  happier  hours  than  those  in 


258  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

which  Carl  and  she  went  riding  into  the  country  together. 
Sometimes  they  would  not  start  till  Carl  had  done  his  morning's 
work,  and  on  these  days  they  would  soberly  jog  out  fifteen 
miles  or  so,  probably  in  the  direction  of  Killearn,  alighting 
there  at  an  inn  for  a  dish  of  steak  and  onions  better  than  any 
other  steak  and  onions  in  the  world.  At  other  times  they 
would  wait  until  the  later  afternoon  and  go  simply  for  a  gallop 
in  the  fields  about  MUngavie.  But  Joanna  liked  it  best  on  a 
Saturday:  for  then  they  could  start  very  early,  posting  through 
the  dark  and  misty  autumn  dawns,  and  pushing  their  way  up 
through  sopping  little  woods  to  high  ground  that  they  might 
canter  forward  to  meet  the  rising  sun.  And  it  was  after 
these  rides  that  they  went  in  just  as  they  were,  glowing  and 
bespattered  with  mud  and  dew,  to  Sangsters  for  what  Carl 
called  "  a  hunter's  breakfast  " — porridge  with  cream,  kid- 
neys and  bacon,  toast  and  "  baps  "  and  "  special  "  coffee, 
with  a  bottle  of  Graves  to  stand  by.  They  were  really  merry, 
these  hunters'  breakfasts.  Though  a  table  was  kept  apart 
for  the  riders,  they  always  took  possession  of  the  place  (half 
empty  at  that  hour)  with  their  rollicking  spirits,  and  the  wait- 
resses seemed  to  participate.  Carl  had  a  ringing  laugh  that 
made  the  other  late  breakfasters  or  early  lunchers  turn  their 
heads. 

So  it  was  that  tales  went  round,  and  one  day  Eva  Gedge 
reported  the  affair  to  Juley  in  such  a  manner  that  Juley  un- 
willingly felt  it  laid  upon  her  to  remonstrate  with  Joanna. 
We  ought,  said  she,  to  "  avoid  the  appearance  of  evil."  She 
herself  "  knew  her  children  too  well  to  listen  for  a  moment 
to  foolish  gossip,"  but  "  dear  Joanna  must  remember  that  she 
was  still  young  and  a  widow,  and  it  had  pleased  God  to  give 
her  good  looks  beyond  the  average."  At  this  most  rare  parental 
allusion  to  outward  appearances  Joanna  stared.  But  she  only 
kissed  her  mother  with  reassuring  affection  and  went  on  her 
way. 

The  stables  from  which  they  hired  their  horses  had  been 
private  at  one  time  to  a  family  mansion.  This  still  stood  at 
some  distance,  (the  stables  being  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
grounds  at  a  far  corner)  empty  these  several  years  and  now 
waiting,  blackly  and  squarely  forlorn,  for  its  demolition.  But 
for  some  reason  its  surrounding  gardens  had  been  kept  care- 
fully tended:  and  especially  before  the  early  morning  rides, 
when  the  grass  and  bushes  were  still  gray  with  dew,  Joanna 


OPEN   THE    DOOR  259 

keenly  enjoyed  the  short  cut  which  might  be  made  by  pass- 
ing diagonally  across  the  sloping  lawns  and  shrubberies. 

It  was  on  of  these  mornings  that  a  new  element  was 
added  to  her  pleasure  in  riding. 

There  had  been  a  hoar  frost  the  night  before,  whitening  the 
grass,  the  trees,  the  high  walls  and  railings,  and  Joanna  cross- 
ing by  herself  to  the  stables  with  her  skirt  held  up,  left  a 
trail  of  dark  footprints  behind  her.  There  were  no  other 
tracks,  so  she  knew  she  was  the  first  to  arrive.  She  could 
hear  the  groom  chirruping  beyond  the  stable  wall,  and  the 
noise  of  nervous  hoofs  on  the  cobbles  as  he  saddled  the  hacks — 
sounds  that  usually  made  her  quicken  her  pace  with  an  eager 
springing  forward  of  her  whole  body.  But  on  this  morning 
she  continued  to  walk  slowly  and  without  looking  about  her. 
She  was  absorbed  entirely  in  the  news  received  the  night 
before,  that  Louis  was  on  his  way  back  to  Glasgow.  He  was 
returning  after  a  longer  absence  than  usual,  returning  from 
Paris.  She  would  see  him  the  next  day.  His  letter,  full  of 
devotion  and  hunger  for  her,  was  between  her  breasts  at  this 
moment,  pressed  close  there  by  her  buttoned-up  riding-coat. 
And  her  heart  was  contracted  with  desperate  longing  and 
fear  and  joy. 

But  somebody  was  shouting  her  name.  It  was  Carl,  lower 
down  in  the  garden  behind  her.  She  smiled  automatically 
and  turned  round  with  a  friendly  gesture  of  greeting.  This 
however  was  arrested  midway,  and  her  uplifted  hand  in  its 
leather  glove  clutching  a  little  riding-switch,  dropped  quickly 
to  her  side  again. 

For  Carl  was  not  alone.  Lawrence  Urquhart  was  with 
him — and  dressed  for  riding. 

Joanna  was  angered.  As  the  two  men  came  towards  her, 
crisping  with  their  boots  through  the  short,  brittle  grass,  she 
blamed  first  Lawrence,  then  Carl,  and  she  met  them  with  a 
blank  face.  Lawrence  might,  thought  she,  have  kept  away. 
He  must  know  how  impossible  it  was  to  carry  out  in  practice 
his  suggested  friendship.  The  strain  and  futility  of  their  few 
meetings  during  the  past  year  (it  was  now  eighteen  months 
since  his  mother's  death)  should  have  convinced  him  of  that. 
And  since  the  last  meeting,  so  long  a  time  had  elapsed  that 
she  had  fancied  him  sensible  to  the  situation.  But  here  he 
was  again.  And  now  the  rides  would  be  spoiled! 
As  for  Carl  he  was  still  more  to  blame  than  Lawrence. 


26o  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

Carl,  knowing  as  she  was  sure  he  did,  about  Louis,  had  deliber- 
ately invited  Lawrence  to  join  them.  It  was  wicked  of  Carl: 
no  wonder  he  did  not  care  to  meet  her  gaze  as  he  explained 
volubly  that  Urquhart  had  been  having  some  lessons  and 
only  needed  company  to  complete  his  enjoyment  in  the  sport. 

And  to  this  tale  Lawrence  assented  with  a  simplicity  which 
astonished  Joanna  almost  out  of  her  anger.  He  had  kept  his 
dark  eyes  on  her  face  while  Carl  spoke,  smiling  with  a  lively 
but  baffling  candor  of  pleasure.  There  was  a  perfect  under- 
standing between  these  two  male  beings  that  was  like  a  con- 
spiracy against  her;  and  she  resented  it  all  the  more  that  they 
were  both  so  incomprehensible  to  her. 

Incomprehensible  they  remained.  But  they  had  not  ridden 
far  with  her  before  she  recovered  her  good  humor  and  for- 
gave them — more  than  forgave  them.  After  all — sang  her 
quickened  blood  when  they  had  got  their  beasts  out  of  town 
and  she  was  giving  her  companions  a  pounding  lead  round  the 
gallop  at  the  water  works — after  all  they  both  knew  how  things 
were,  and  if  they  still  liked  to  be  in  her  company  it  was  of 
their  own  choice.  Before  starting  upon  another  break-neck 
round,  she  stole  a  look  at  Lawrence.  He  was  only  a  tolerable 
rider,  but  on  horseback  as  in  the  dance  he  escaped  from  his 
nervousness  and  was  enjoying  the  exercise  with  a  curious 
kind  of  still  excitement.  Though  he  used  no  enthusiastic  expres- 
sions of  pleasure  Joanna  knew  that  he  had  entered  with  her 
and  with  Carl  into  the  spirit  of  the  morning.  A  dark  radiance 
emanated  from  him. 

Soon  a  ride  was  not  complete  without  him. 

IV 

To  Louis  Joanna  made  the  most  of  these  rides,  and  it 
pleased  her  to  find  that  he  was  both  envious  (himself  no  horse- 
man, and  too  old,  he  said,  to  learn)  and  jealous  of  her  company. 
So  now  by  severance  was  she  learning  to  bind  him  to  her.  The 
deep  appeal  for  uncalculating  union  had  failed:  the  sensual 
appeal  was  erratic:  now  she  was  discovering  a  new  emulative 
relation  in  which  the  balance  of  power  was  re-established  in 
her  favor.  Once,  laughing,  Louis  had  told  her  of  a  French- 
man who,  when  asked  if  he  believed  in  platonic  friendship 
between  man  and  woman,  replied — "Maisoui!  Apres!  "  And 
undoubtedly  as  time  went  on,  more  and  more  of  their  hours 
together  were  hours  of  sheer  friendliness,  especially  on  the 


OPENTHEDOOR  261 

part  of  Louis.  The  suffering  of  these  friendly  hours  fell  to 
Joanna,  but  she  braced  herself  to  bear  it  as  something  inevit- 
able. She  could  bear  anything,  thought  she,  seeing  Louis 
at  peace.  And  he  was  often  curiously  peaceful  in  such  hours. 

With  the  paintings  he  did  of  her  he  remained  dissatisfied, 
and  he  would  not  finish  any.  But  he  was  constantly  begging 
her  to  sit. 

"  It  is  strange,"  he  exclaimed  one  day,  "  I  always  get 
you  better  when  I  draw  you  from  memory.  Look  at  this!  " 
And  he  showed  Joanna  a  brilliant  little  figure  drawing  he 
had  done  quite  without  notes  when  he  was  in  Paris. 

"  There  is  your  very  self,"  he  declared,  satisfied  for  once, 
"  your  movement — see  that  bold,  beautiful  action  of  the  thigh. 
—That  is  you — more  you  than  the  eyes  in  your  head.  And  I 
hope  you  admire  the  articulation  of  the  knees,  the  fineness, 
see  there! — as  it  also  is  yours  my  pretty  one, — more  yours  than 
the  nose  on  your  face.  Not  that  the  face  is  so  bad  in  the 
drawing  either,  mind  you.  I've  got  you  there  too  I  think. 
But  of  course  the  figure's  the  thing  here.  That's  as  I  saw  you 
the  day  we  took  bread  and  cheese  down  to  Loch  Katrine: 
do  you  remember?  And  I  dared  you  to  bathe!  I'll  not 
forget  how  you  looked,  Joanna,  running  out  to  the  water  from 
under  those  little  hazel  trees.  I  do  believe  I'll  go  on  to  my 
dying  day  drawing  you  as  you  looked  to  me  then." 

Yet  Louis  did  not  offer  her  the  drawing,  and  he  took  no 
notice  when  she  said  she  would  love  to  have  it. 

She  puzzled  over  this.  At  home,  unknown  to  him,  she 
had  a  letter-case  crammed  with  the  treasured  pen  or  pencil 
sketches  with  which  her  lover  habitually  illustrated  his  talk- 
scrawls  done  hastily  on  the  backs  of  envelopes,  on  fly-leaves 
torn  out  of  books,  on  any  scrap  of  paper  that  came  handy. 
But  a  serious  drawing  he  had  never  given  her,  and  there  was 
no  other  material  gift  she  could  have  wished  to  have  from  him. 
She  had  indeed  been  always  deeply  pleased,  if  also  a  little 
piqued,  at  his  oblivion  on  the  subject  of  presents.  She  had 
liked  it  that  in  their  goings  about  he  would  let  her  pay  her  share 
of  things.  For  somehow  she  had  known  that  he  was  not  mean. 
She  also  knew  that  in  spite  of  the  sums  he  was  now  earning, — 
sums  that  seemed  enormous  to  her  when  he  mentioned  them, — 
he  was  often  really  short  of  money.  His  personal  habits 
were  of  the  simplest,  yet  he  was  continually  harassed  by  debt 
of  which  he  had  a  puritanical  hatred.  He  had  told  her  frankly 


262  OPEN   THE    DOOR 

that  his  London  household  was  maintained  in  a  mannner 
beyond  his  means. 

But  all  this  was  no  reason  why  he  should  refuse  her  the 
drawing  she  so  wanted,  and  she  now  begged  for  it,  rather 
timidly. 

Louis  looked  at  her  and  moved  his  eyes  away  again. 

"  My  wife  hates  me  to  part  with  any  of  my  stuff,"  he  said. 
"  She  has  some  kind  of  notion  that  it  is  her  due,  that  if  I  were 
to  die  she  would  be  provided  for  by  having  everything  that 
wasn't  sold  in  the  usual  way.  As  we  live  you  see  I  can't  save 
a  halfpenny.  She  is  queer  about  it  perhaps  but  there  it  is. 
One  way  and  another  I  owe  her  a  good  deal,  and  as  I've 
been  pretty  filthy  to  her  on  the  whole,  I  feel  I  must  defer  to 
her  in  this." 

A  chasm  gaped  in  the  little  silence  that  followed.  With  his 
first  words  Joanna  had  suffered  a  hideous  sinking  of  spirit. 
The  very  tones  of  his  voice  seemed  echoing  in  response  to 
some  unsuspected  hollowness  in  the  world.  She  had  a  picture 
of  her  lover  stamping  with  shamefaced  bravado  upon  a  vault 
in  which  his  own  dead  body  lay.  Involuntarily  she  shut  her 
eyes  for  a  second.  But  she  gave  no  other  sign  or  word.  She 
never  again  asked  him  for  a  drawing. 

There  were  times  when  she  felt  she  possessed  him  most  in 
absence.  When  he  was  away  he  was  in  all  she  did,  and  she 
had  increasing  certitude  that  he  felt  his  life  vitalized  by  her. 
Never  a  letter-writer  before,  he  had  acquired,  unasked,  the 
habit  of  writing  to  her  constantly  and  at  length.  He  wrote 
from  London,  from  Paris,  from  New  York,  from  Moscow — 
flowing  letters  like  his  speech,  and  interspersed  with  drawings 
of  people  and  things  that  had  caught  his  fancy.  (As  his  wife 
hated  travelling  he  generally  made  his  journeys  alone).  His 
hand-writing  came  to  affect  Joanna  like  his  bodily  presence, 
made  her  tremble  through  her  being  when  her  eye  lighted 
upon  it.  And  in  return  she  filled  her  letters  to  him  with 
spontaneous  but  not  wholly  artless  glamor.  She  knew  so  well 
these  days  how  to  pique  and  interest  him  that  it  cost  her  no 
effort,  was  indeed  a  keen  excitement  and  enjoyment. 

And  their  meetings  became  more  like  their  letters — less 
stormy,  less  dependent  on  passion — except  that  in  his  presence 
Joanna  played  her  part  heavily  burdened.  Yet  she  believed 
it  was  a  part  worth  playing.  She  had  always  one  tale  to 
tell,  another  tale  to  hear,  and  Louis  revelled  light-heartedly 


OPEN   THE    DOOR  263 

in  the  exchange.  He  often  questioned  whether  they  would 
have  got  one  tithe  of  the  fun  and  charm  out  of  their  experi- 
ences had  these  been  matrimonially  shared.  The  deadliest 
dinner  party,  he  declared,  became  diverting  when  he  had  to 
describe  it  to  her;  and  the  most  commonplace  events  of  her 
life,  when  she  recounted  them  to  him,  were  bathed  in  the 
light  that  never  was  by  sea  or  land. 

This  then  was  their  solution  for  the  time.  From  their  two 
years  as  lovers  they  emerged  as  two  distinct  and  separate 
streams  of  existence.  Momentarily  they  might  and  did  flow 
as  one.  But  they  were  never  so  much  in  unison  as  when 
they  flowed  apart,  each  sweeping  outwards  round  a  rich  indi- 
vidual curve,  each  rushing  in  an  opposite  direction  but  ever 
onwards  and  ever  with  gathering  impetus  towards  the  next 
brief  mingling. 


Meanwhile  life  in  La  France  Quadrant  became  every  day 
more  difficult.  The  business  of  housekeeping,  even  for  so 
small  a  family,  was  too  much  now  for  Juley.  She  went  weighed 
down  with  it,  and  people  in  the  streets  looked  askance  at  her 
unslept  face  and  dragging  gait.  She  had  her  being  in  a  cruel 
trough  of  muddle,  released  only  when  sleep  overcame  her, 
or  when  she  could  pray  aloud  with  a  companion,  and  so  keep 
sleep  at  bay  while  she  cried  for  succor.  But  she  was  vigorous 
still.  She  could  not  live  in  the  house  and  see  herself  super- 
seded by  a  daughter.  At  the  utmost  she  would  apportion 
only  certain  vague  duties  to  Joanna;  and  even  here  she  was 
continually  changing  and  fault-finding.  At  odd  times,  exas- 
perating to  one  with  work  of  her  own  to  consider,  she  would 
make  desperate  appeals  for  daughterly  help.  Yet  if  Joanna 
tried  unobtrusively  to  take  some  of  the  burden  off  her  weary, 
indomitable  shoulders,  she  was  apt  to  resent  it.  A  "  com- 
panion "  she  would  not  hear  of.  "  Treating  me  like  a  child  or 
an  idiot  in  my  own  house!  "  she  exclaimed  at  the  bare  sug- 
gestion, and  she  would  repeat  the  saying  common  with  her 
"  better  to  wear  out,  than  rust  out." 

Both  the  remaining  children  knew  that  a  change  in  their  way 
of  living  would  have  to  be  made,  and  made  soon.  But  what 
change?  And  how  bring  it  about?  In  the  frequent  debates 
between  them  and  their  mother  each  was  prompted  by  a 
secret,  personal  desire,  and  these  desires  were  in  conflict. 


264  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

Linnet  longed  to  be  in  rooms  of  his  own:  Joanna  was  heading 
for  London:  Juley  did  not  know  what  she  wanted.  Pierced 
as  she  was  by  the  knowledge  that  her  children  wished  to  be 
gone  from  her,  she  yet  clung  to  the  familiar.  She  fought 
against  any  acknowledgment  that  it  was  failing  her  at  every 
point. 

But  in  March  came  the  tidings  that  Georgie  was  engaged 
to  a  young  man  of  whom  she  had  made  mention  continually 
for  two  years  past — a  London  doctor  named  Max  Wyler — 
and  at  La  France  Quadrant  the  announcement  was  hailed  with  a 
special  excitement.  Apart  from  its  ordinary  interest  it  intro- 
duced a  new  and  unexpected  element  into  the  family  situation. 
At  the  least  it  would  bring  about  an  immediate  and,  as  it  were, 
official  family  conclave.  For  Georgie  was  coming  home  at 
once  to  be  married  (Max,  she  wrote,  strongly  disapproved 
of  long  engagements) ;  and  .with  her  and  her  beloved  (a 
Eugenist,  she  said  he  was)  coming  fresh  to  the  problem,  it 
was  felt  that  some  solution  was  imminent. 

And  at  about  the  same  time,  cousin  Mabel  proposed  a  long 
visit.  Mabel  had  been  married  for  several  years  now  in  India, 
but  on  this,  her  first  visit  home,  was  without  her  husband. 
Why  should  not  Mabel  also,  knowing  them  all  as  she  had 
done  since  childhood,  have  a  voice  in  the  Bannerman  council? 

Mabel  did.  She  arrived  looking  as  pretty  and  as  shifty  as 
ever  (the  East  had  hardly  affected  her  peach-bloom  com- 
plexion), and  she  was  full  of  stories  that  proved  how  besottedly 
her  husband  was  in  love  with  her.  Careful  she  was,  too,  to 
ask  what  had  become  of  Bob  Ranken.  Subtly  she  smiled 
when  she  heard  that  he  prospered  and  that  Joanna  still  had 
an  occasional  letter  from  him. 

And  from  the  first  Mabel  was  loud  in  her  applause  of  the 
fine  new  family  plans  which  Georgie  and  her  Max  had  evolved 
between  them,  plans  which  were  based  on  the  separately 
confidential  letters  Georgie  had  lately  received  from  Joanna, 
Linnet  and  her  mother.  (An  astute  man,  this  Max.  Jewish; 
by  the  irony  of  fate;  beautifully  considerate  and  understand- 
ing with  Juley;  giving  her  a  new  lease  of  life  by  permitting 
her  to  regard  him  in  the  light  of  a  possible  convert;  charming 
her  with  his  persuasive  tongue,  his  oriental,  intelligent  eyes; 
and  exercising  to  the  full  upon  her  that  magnetism  which  only 
his  enemies  designated  as  the  making  of  a  clever  charlatan. 
Clearly,  even  to  his  enemies,  a  future  lay  ahead  of  this  tall 


OPENTHEDOOR  265 

and  willowy  young  Hebrew  with  the  curly  black  beard.  And 
how  his  Georgie  adored  him! ) 

Unfolded  his  plans  were  these. 

Joanna  was  to  have  her  wish  and  go  to  London:  (absurd 
that  she  should  neglect  the  chances  of  work  now  offering 
there!)  But  she  was  to  go,  not  merely,  not  even  primarily 
on  her  own  account.  She  was  to  be  a  forerunner.  With 
Georgie  married  in  London  the  mother  too  would  surely  have 
to  make  her  home  there  before  long.  She  must  of  course 
take  her  own  time.  And  while  Joanna  was  finding  her  feet,  and 
at  the  same  time  keeping  her  eyes  open  for  a  suitable  house — 
say  in  Hampstead  (Georgie  and  he  were  to  be  in  the  Garden 
Suburb) — no  doubt  Mrs.  Bannerman  would  be  glad  to  see 
Linnet  comfortably  settled  in  Glasgow  where  his  lot  was  cast. 
For  the  present,  a  holiday  from  housekeeping  was  essential. 
What  was  to  prevent  Mrs.  Bannerman  from  spending  the  com- 
ing six  months  with  her  friend  Eva?  Had  it  not  been  her 
lifelong  desire  to  devote  herself  to  mission  work?.  Her  children 
were  now  men  and  women.  God  had  given  her  energy  and 
leisure.  Many  years  of  usefulness  doubtless  lay  before 
her.  In  London  of  all  places,  later  on,  when  her  strength 
was  restored,  she  could  make  her  choice  of  congenial  work. 

How  simple  it  all  seemed  after  all!  Delightful.  And  so 
full  both  of  common  sense  and  piety!  Mabel  was  almost 
melting  in  her  admiration  of  each  point;  Joanna  and  Linnet 
rejoiced  silently  in  their  different  degrees;  Georgie  looked 
unspeakably  proud  and  possessive  of  the  new  genius  who  had 
deigned  to  confer  himself  on  her  family.  Juley  alone  was 
doubtful  and  had  qualms.  But  even  she  had  to  agree  in  a 
measure.  Might  not  her  doubts  spring  from  lack  of  faith? 
She  thought  of  the  children  her  own  eldest  born  was  sure  to 
bear  to  this  man — black-eyed,  curly-haired  babes  with  the 
blood  of  Abraham  in  their  tender  bodies.  And  deep  within 
her  soul  the  old  hopes  stirred  afresh. 

Georgie 's  wedding  was  a  bourgeois  but  very  happy  affair 
in  the  drawing-room.  A  suitable  minister  had  at  first  been 
something  of  a  difficulty.  Unfortunately  Juley  at  the  moment 
was  in  that  particular  stage  of  progression  between  two 
churches  which  debarred  her  from  asking  a  favor  of  the 
pastor  of  either;  and  it  had  of  course  to  be  explained  that  the 
new  son-in-law  was  not  more  than  tolerant  at  present  of  the 
Christian  religion.  A  young  missionary,  however,  who  had 


266  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

just  arrived  at  home  on  a  holiday  from  Constantinople,  was 
prevailed  upon  to  officiate,  and  after  that  all  went  smoothly. 

Max  certainly  behaved  beautifully.  At  the  way  he  kissed 
Juley's  hand  after  the  simple  ceremony,  Mrs.  Boyd  shed  tears 
of  joy:  and  seeing  this,  the  bridegroom  proceeded  gallantly 
to  kiss  hers  also,  bending  his  long,  elegant  waist  before  her 
as  if  she  were  a  queen.  Even  the  laconic  Linnet  who  gave 
Georgie  away  had  to  admit  that  his  brother-in-law  was  "  a 
very  decent  chap,  and  clever,  by  God!  " 

And  some  at  least  of  the  schemes  suggested  by  Max  in 
March  were  being  carried  out  in  practice  three  months  later. 

By  June  it  was  actually  decided  that  Joanna  should  go  to 
London.  The  other  changes  would  follow;  though  not — to 
Linnet's  mortification — at  once.  His  mother,  after  many 
prayerful  but  not  wholly  satisfactory  colloquies  with  Eva,  had 
decided  to  stay  on  with  him  until  such  time  as  a  temporary 
and  very  humble  niche  should  be  created  for  her  by  her  friend's 
kindness  in  the  Lady  Missionaries  Training  College.  Linnet, 
she  said  sadly,  would  have  long  enough  by  himself  later  on. 
Besides  for  the  next  month  or  two  Mabel  was  to  be  at  La  France 
Quadrant.  Mabel  had  a  year  to  spend  in  England,  and  she 
wished  to  devote  a  good  part  of  that  time  to  dear  Aunt  Juley. 
And  Mabel  had  succeeded  where  others  had  failed,  in  coaxing 
Juley  to  hand  over  all  the  housekeeping  for  a  few  weeks  at 
least. 

VI 

Before  she  left  Joanna  called  on  Carl  Nilsson  to  say  good- 
bye. 

Louis  for  some  months  past  had  been  in  London,  and  with 
Phemie  gone,  Carl  was  the  only  person  in  Glasgow  to  whom 
she  could  really  speak. 

The  little,  grizzled  artist  looked  rather  sharply  at  her  as, 
with  a  sense  of  dejection,  she  sat  down  on  her  own  special 
chair  in  the  studio  (the  same  chair  on  which  Phemie  had 
perched  on  the  afternoon  of  their  first  meeting).  But  for  some 
minutes  they  only  spoke  of  Phemie.  On  first  reaching  New 
Zealand  things  had  gone  hard  with  her.  And  she  had  been 
ill.  But  that  she  was  happy,  deeply  fulfilled  in  her  marriage, 
both  her  friends  were  assured  by  the  tone  of  her  letters. 

And  Urquhart?  Had  Joanna  had  word  lately  of  Urquhart 
at  all?  asked  Carl  presently. 


OPENTHEDOOR  267 

"  He  was  passed  over  you  know,"  he  told  her,  "  for  the 
Folklore  Lectureship — about  two  months  ago.  Yes,  an  out- 
sider got  it.  Had  she  not  heard?  " 

But  Joanna  had  heard  nothing.  It  was  three  months  or 
more,  Carl  must  remember,  since  their  last  ride  in  his  com- 
pany. Didn't  Carl  recall  it?  His  horse  had  gone  lame,  and 
Lawrence  and  she  had  had  to  leave  him  behind  at  Milngavie? 
She  had  never  ridden  since  that  day.  She  had  been  saving 
all  her  money  for  London.  ("As  if  that  were  the  reason!  " 
said  Carl's  eyes),  and  she  had  heard  and  seen  nothing  of  Law- 
rence since  that  day.  She  was  sorry  about  his  disappointment. 

"  And  well  may  you  be  sorry,  Signora  Madonna!  "  agreed 
Carl,  looking  as  if  he  would  gladly  shake  her.  "  I'm  sorry  too 
to  have  lost  my  pleasantest  companion  in  Glasgow.  Many  a 
night  has  he  sat  where  you  sit  now,  talking  with  me  till  four 
in  the  morning.  Many  the  good  bottle  we  have  emptied  too, 
rearranging  the  world." 

"  Where — what — has  he  gone  to  London  then?  "  faltered 
Joanna  with  misgiving. 

"  No,"  Carl  returned  shor'jy,  rising  from  his  place.  "  No. 
You  needn't  be  afraid.  He's  in  Oxford,  not  in  London  yet! 
He  has  gone  to  "  scrub  "  as  he  calls  it,  for  Manson,  the  anthro- 
pologist who  soon  brings  out  the  last  volume  of  Arcana 
Promethea — you  have  heard  of  the  Arcana  perhaps? — a  truly 
encylopedic  work  on  the  evolution  of  culture,  For  Urquhart 
I'm  glad  enough,  though  sorry  for  myself.  It  is  work  to 
suit  him.  He  was  in  the  marsh  here — the  stuff  you  call  it? — 
stuck  and  stagnant.  There,  he  may  find  his  rock-bottom. 
But  Joanna — O!  my  poor,  stupid  Joanna!  And  all  for  a 
man  that's  as  dead  as  dead!  Pfui!  " 

At  the  onslaught,  so  unexpected  and  severe,  Joanna  flushed 
painfully  and  avoided  her  friend's  shrewd  gaze.  In  her  heart 
there  could  be  no  misunderstanding  of  his  words.  The  dead 
man  he  had  spoken  of  was  not  Mario,  not  her  dead  husband. 
His  words  too  had  forced  her  to  recall  a  confused  but  vexing 
memory.  She  was  compelled  to  re-live  the  last  ride  which, 
owing  to  a  mischance,  had  been  taken  alone  in  Lawrence's 
company.  She  saw  again  the  muddy  country  lanes,  darkness, 
the  humid  air  of  evening,  and  they  framed  the  bitterness  of  a 
young  man  wounded  in  his  manhood.  She  winced  again  under 
his  reproaches.  From  below  the  hoofs  of  their  horses,  the 
thick,  glistening  mud  had  flown  up  at  them,  blackening  the 


268 

belly  of  Lawrence's  tall,  whitish  hack;  and  above  them  the 
dripping  trees  had  bent  over  the  road  like  the  wires  of  a  steel 
trap.  How  she  had  longed  to  escape  from  him  and  forget. 
And  she  had  escaped,  was  going  to  forget!  But  it  was  hateful 
that  Lawrence  had  sat  in  this  very  chair  and  had  talked  about 
her  to  Carl.  She  wished  never  to  see  or  think  of  Lawrence 
again.  She  was  sorry,  of  course,  that  he  had  failed  to  get 
his  lectureship.  But  she  was  glad,  glad  now  without  a  single 
regret,  that  she  was  going  to  London.  There  would  be  no 
Carl  there  to  reproach  her.  No  Lawrence  to  love  and  accuse 
her.  There  would  only  be  Louis.  She  would  go  her  own 
way.  No  one  should  stop  her. 

END  OF  BOOK  n 


BOOK  III 

"...   Behold,  I  make  all  things  new." — Rev.  xxl  5. 

CHAPTER  I 
i 

JOANNA  reached  London  on  a  Friday  late  in  June. 
She  was  met  at  Euston  Station  by  Georgie,  and  carried 
enthusiastically  off  to  her  sister's  beautiful  hygienic  home 
in  the  Garden  Suburb.  Without  and  within  the  house  was 
all  green  and  white.  It  suggested  some  very  pleasant  kind  of 
institute  rather  than  a  personal  dwelling  place.  Nevertheless 
its  mistress  had  caused  the  name  Duntarvie  to  be  painted 
in  clear  letters  upon  the  gate.  Joanna  duly  admired  everything. 

But  sincere  as  was  this  admiration  of  Joanna's,  it  was 
in  no  degree  of  the  covetous  sort;  and  at  breakfast  on  Satur- 
day the  elder  sister  was  provoked  to  a  considerable  exaspera- 
tion by  the  quiet  obstinacy  displayed  by  the  younger  on  the 
subject  of  lodgings.  It  was  not,  she  complained,  as  if  Joanna 
could  give  any  definite  idea  of  what  she  did  want.  Why  then 
should  she  be  so  positive  in  her  refusal  even  to  look  at  the 
rooms  her  brother-in-law  had  kindly  bespoken  for  her,  rooms 
green  and  white  like  Georgie's  own,  and  so  nice  and  near  in  a 
New  Era  boarding  house  opened  only  a  week  ago  by  one  of 
Max's  enterprising  friends?  Joanna  sat  accused  of  prejudice 
by  both  Max  and  Georgie.  But  in  vain.  For  she  admitted 
it,  and  she  did  not  see  the  New  Era  rooms. 

And  after  luncheon  she  gave  Georgie  the  slip,  and  within 
an  hour,  as  if  by  instinct,  found  herself  in  the  region  of  May- 
fair. 

There  she  strolled  about,  ravished  by  glimpses  of  the  Green 
Park  and  deeply  pleased  with  all  she  saw.  Here  was  the  old 
order,  beautiful  and  old-established,  (a  little  dead  perhaps  at 
the  core — Georgie  would  certainly  have  called  it  rotten)  yet 
still  by  Joanna  unpossessed.  And  what  a  finely  grained 
modest  surface  it  presented!  Here  surely  was  the  London 

269 


270  OPEN    THE    DOOR 

of  Louis.  Its  appearance  was  extraordinarily  touching  to 
her.  Here  she  could  have  walked,  thought  she,  all  the  after- 
noon and  evening,  seeing  her  lover  on  every  hand:  could  have 
walked  for  the  sheer  enjoyment  of  looking  and  finding  him. 
For  that  she  should  find  in  this  Mayfair  rooms  for  herself 
seemed  scarcely  a  possibility.  Louis  had  warned  her,  laugh- 
ing, that  she  would  most  likely  have  to  be  content  with  Maida 
Vale  or  Kilburn  or  West  Hampstead.  And  he  ought  to  know. 
He  himself  lived  at  Campden  Hill.  Mayfair  indeed! 

It  was  at  this  very  moment  that  Joanna  drew  level  with 
a  break  in  the  low  line  of  shops  which  now  ran  opposite. 
The  break  was  caused  by  a  square,  rather  wide  archway  which 
gave  vent  between  the  shops  while  leaving  the  dwelling-houses 
above  intact.  That  is  to  say  it  carried  a  room  directly  over 
it.  Joanna  stopped  and  stared  intently.  It  was  a  room  surely 
enough.  It  had  an  old  jutting  window  which  was  bare  of 
curtains.  And  in  that  window  all  Joanna's  dreams  of  a  lodg- 
ing in  London  were  immediately  crystallized. 

She  crossed  the  road  with  a  wildly  beating  heart. 

She  was  still  in  Mayfair,  but  had  slipped  in  her  wanderings 
into  one  of  those  little  colonies  of  working  people  which  are  a 
distinguishing  feature  of  fashionable  London.  The  more  pro- 
hibitive the  quarter,  the  more  certain  one  may  be  of  finding 
such  a  dependence  tucked  away  in  it;  and  very  often,  as 
in  this  case,  it  will  happen  that  the  dependence  retains  a  living 
dignity  and  a  gaiety  which  have  some  time  since  departed 
from  the  greater  houses  of  the  neighborhood ._ 

Here  there  was  a  smell  of  mews,  and  sounds  of  various 
business  came  forth  from  the  court  to  which  Joanna's  archway 
gave  entrance.  Beneath  the  flat-faced  old  brick  houses  the 
shops  looked  neat  and  prosperous,  and  shone  with  an  attractive, 
light-hearted  sort  of  respectability.  On  the  left  hand  corner 
of  the  archway  an  open  fruit  stall  spread  itself  like  a  down- 
turned  fan  that  had  been  painted  in  bright,  triangular  sections, 
green  and  red  and  yellow.  On  the  right  hand  corner  was  an 
undertaker's.  Next  door  was  a  saddler's. 

But  it  was  upon  the  undertaker's  that  Joanna  concentrated 
her  attention.  For  in  this  window,  positively  as  if  created 
by  her  strong  desire,  a  card  was  displayed.  It  advertised:— 

Two  UNFURNISHED  ROOMS  TO  LET 
Apply  5  Chapel  Court 


OPEN   THE   DOOR  271 

Several  times  over  Joanna  read  this  notice,  and  now  all  her 
longing  was  to  discover  whether  one  of  the  two  rooms  might 
be  that  above  the  archway.  But  so  fearful  was  she  of  disap- 
pointment that  she  remained  a  full  minute  nerving  herself  for 
it.  She  stared  at  the  card,  at  the  discreetly  elegant  urn  of 
polished  stone  against  which  the  card  was  propped,  at  the 
three  words — Funerals,  Cremations,  Embalmings — which, 
engraved  in  gilt  upon  some  oak  panelling,  formed  a  chaste 
back-ground  for  the  urn.  Clearly  a  superior  sort  of  under- 
taker's, this.  Here  were  no  brittle  but  imperishable  wreaths 
under  glass  shades,  no  vaunting  that  Pinking  and  Kilting 
were  done  on  the  premises,  no  china  scrolls  bearing  in  black 
lettering  the  motto — "  Lost,  but  not  forgotten,"  Reformed 
Funerals  was  the  reticent  announcement  across  its  plate-glass 
front;  and  the  dark  gray  urn,  veined  with  a  yet  darker  gray, 
was  the  only  decoration. 

Her  courage  in  hand,  Joanna  entered  Chapel  Court  and 
looked  round  it.  How  Louis  would  approve  of  this!  Some 
children  played  across  the  cheerful  paved  slope  which  was 
raised  on  one  side  above  the  level  of  the  few  little  shops  so  that 
one  would  have  to  go  down  two  or  three  steps  to  enter  them. 
They  were  very  small  shops,  like  toy  ones — a  little  news- 
vendor's,  a  little  barber's,  a  little  public  house  called  The 
Bird  in  Hand.  A  washing  fluttered  from  a  sort  of  roof-garden 
where  somebody  had  every  reason  to  be  proud  of  the  petunias, 
perhaps  still  more  of  the  nasturtiums.  And  the  room  over 
the  archway  had  a  window  looking  into  the  court  as  well.  If 
only — if  only  she  might  show  it  as  her  own  to  Louis  on 
Monday! 

For  till  Monday  she  was  not  to  see  him.  He  was  out  of 
town  till  then.  And  it  was  a  relief.  On  the  threshold  of 
her  new  life  in  London  such  a  trembling  had  taken  her.  Louis 
in  Glasgow  she  knew.  But  would  Louis  in  London  be  the 
same  man?  Would  he  find  her  the  same  woman?  Much, 
she  felt,  depended  on  their  first  meeting.  Suppose  it  were 
unfortunate,  one  of  their  failures?  Suppose  in  London  he  no 
longer  liked  the  look  of  her?  Coming  along  the  streets  that 
afternoon  she  had  been  studying  the  women  with  an  almost 
painful  concentration  of  inquiry.  They  had  a  look,  a  some- 
thing that  she  lacked,  and  she  felt  sure  her  lover  admired 
that  something.  If  only  she  were  certain,  quite  certain  of 
what  he  felt  for  her! 


272  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

As  she  searched  for  number  five  in  the  court,  she  recalled 
carefully  the  last  talk  between  them. 

"  Do  you  love  me?  "  she  had  asked,  and  in  the  pause  that 
followed,  would  gladly  have  withdrawn  her  question.  But  it 
was  uttered  now.  No  help  for  it!  And  she  had  waited 
miserably,  furious  with  herself  and  with  him. 

"  I  believe  I  do,  worse  luck  for  me,"  he  had  said  at  length, 
giving  her  a  quick,  troubled  glance.  "  But  you  needn't 
ask  what  I  feel  for  you,  Joanna.  You  must  know  perfectly 
well." 

It  was  not  the  answer  she  hungered  for,  but  she  was  thank- 
ful he  had  not  simply  replied  with  an  impatient  "  Of  course  I 
do!  "  And  there  had  been  a  ring  of  rueful  truth  in  his  "  worse 
luck  for  me." 

But  now  she  had  found  the  door  she  wanted,  a  neat,  moss- 
green  door  tucked  away  up  three  crooked  steps  in  a  corner. 
She  knocked,  waited,  and  at  length  heard  the  heavy,  careful 
feet  of  a  child  coming  down  the  stair  inside.  It  must  be  a  very 
steep  stair,  thought  she. 

The  next  moment  the  door  was  cautiously  opened  and  a 
very  little  boy,  wearing  a  notably  clean  holland  tunic,  stood 
in  the  narrow  aperture  looking  up  at  her. 

Joanna  looked  down  at  him  with  eyes  almost  as  grave  as 
his  own,  and  as  she  looked  she  hoped  very  much  that  he  would 
like  her.  His  curious  seriousness,  and  indeed  his  whole  small 
person  was  attractive  to  her.  And  this  though  there  seemed 
to  be  something  indefinably  wrong  with  his  proportions.  He 
was  not  deformed,  but  his  head  looked  too  large  for  his  rather 
dwindled  limbs,  a  fault  which  was  accentuated  by  the  unusual 
thickness  of  his  brown  hair.  And  there  was  a  look  of  premature 
intelligence  in  his  gray,  starry  eyes,  seldom  to  be  seen  in  the 
eyes  of  a  child  who  is  not  crippled. 

"  I  saw  the  card  in  the  window,"  said  Joanna.  "  Is  anyone 
at  home? "  It  took  the  little  fellow  a  few  moments  to 
collect  himself.  He  had  a  slight  hesitation  in  speech,  but  the 
words  when  they  came  (saving  that  he  could  only  pronounce 
th  as  v)  were  exquisitely  enunciated. 

"  My  FWver  is  out,"  he  said,  "  and  my  muwer  is  out. 
My  sister  and  I  are  at  home.  Muwer  said  she  would  be 
back  very  soon  indeed.  She  is  just  darting  to  the  chemist's." 

Joanna  smiled.  Perhaps,  thought  she,  his  mother  is  a 
bird!  The  child  himself,  with  his  small  figure  squeezed 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  273 

between  the  barely-opened  door  and  the  jamb,  looked  not 
unlike  a  nestling  whose  wings  are  still  absurd  where  flight  is 
concerned. 

"  Do  you  think  I  could  come  in  and  wait  till  Mother  comes 
back?  "  she  asked. 

"'I  fink  so,  certainly,"  was  the  boy's  well  considered  reply, 
and  when  he  had  spoken  he  widened  the  aperture  where  he 
stood  and  displayed  a  narrow,  ladder-like  stair  covered  with 
polished  blue  linoleum  spotless  as  his  tunic. 

Joanna  entered  marvelling  at  his  self-possession.  He  could 
not,  she  judged  from  his  size,  be  more  than  six  years  old. 

"  I'm  eight,"  he  replied,  however,  to  her  question  on  this 
point — "  and  my  sister  is  twelve.  But  I  am  small  for  eight," 
he  added  stocially,  "  and  she  is  very  long  indeed  for  twelve." 

Joanna  asked  him  his  name.  It  was  Rodney  Bannister 
Moon,  he  told  her,  which  she  thought  a  very  nice,  pretty  name. 
And  his  sister — what  was  she  called? 

"  She's  called  Miss  Moon,"  said  he. 

The  visitor,  feeling  a  rebuke  in  the  perfect,  bright  gravity 
of  this  reply,  asked  no  more  questions.  But  as  her  host 
stumped  manfully  on  his  short  legs  up  the  stairs  in  front  of 
her,  he  volunteered  some  further,  and  as  it  were  pleasanter, 
information. 

"  She's  an  invalid,"  he  announced  with  great  cheerfulness. 
"  Would  you  like  to  see  her?     She's  been  moving  her  head . 
so  nicely  to-day,  and  when  she  opens  her  mouf  I'm  allowed 
to  put  a  little  sugar  in.    Just  a  weeny,  teeny  grain  of  course, 
or  else  it  might  choke  her." 

A  door  on  the  landing  above  stood  open,  and  Joanna  as  she 
followed  the  boy  wondering,  had  a  glimpse  of  the  little  sitting- 
room  to  which  he  was  leading  her.  It  was  a  room  (saving 
that  the  rug  before  the  fireplace  was  littered  with  fine,  curi- 
ously shaped  pieces  of  metal)  tidy  to  a  scrupulous  degree. 
And  more  than  tidy  indeed.  For  there  were  Diirer  prints 
hung  with  discrimination  upon  the  plain,  lavender  walls,  and 
an  old  diamond-paned  bookcase  stood  opposite  to  the  door, 
and  in  a  corner,  also  visible  from  the  staircase,  was  a  Heppel- 
white  music-stand  with  a  violin-case  beside  it. 

But  once  she  had  entered  Joanna  saw  only  a  single  object, 
and  it  was  none  of  these.  It  was  a  thing  that  lay  flat  on  its 
back  in  a  wicker  spinal  carriage  near  the  window.  It  was 
an  unhappiness  from  which  when  one  perceived  it,  it  seemed 


274  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

wrong  not  to  avert  one's  eyes.  Yet  one  had  to  look.  So 
this  was  Miss  Moon! 

Joanna  looked,  and  looked  again.  She  was  thankful  to 
have  seen,  with  time  for  recovering  herself,  before  the  mother's 
arrival.  And  she  was  steadied  by  the  unconcern  of  Miss 
Moon's  brother. 

"  She  had  a  fit  this  morning,"  he  was  saying,  making  polite 
conversation  from  where  he  was  squatted  on  the  rug,  and  with- 
out looking  up  from  his  interrupted  work  of  piecing  together 
the  parts  of  a  meccano.  "  When  she  has  a  fit,  white  stuff 
comes  out  of  her  mouf.  But  my  Farver  says  it  isn't  the 
sugar  really.  My  Farver  says  it  is  froff,  like  what  a  horse 
gets  on  its  bit  sometimes.  You  see  " — he  explained,  summing 
up — "  she's  afflicted,  that's  what  it  is." 

Joanna  who  had  sat  down  in  a  little  rocking-chair,  looked 
again  at  the  stricken  one  by  the  window,  and  she  looked  this 
time  differently.  The  boy's  way  of  regarding  his  sister  as  a 
wonderful  sort  of  live  doll  had  curiously  cleared  and  altered 
her  vision.  Her  first  horror  was  gone,  and  looking  simply, 
a  child  herself  for  the  moment,  she  saw  that  the  still  face  was 
beautiful.  The  close-cropped  skull,  its  sharp  temples  so  trans- 
parent and  blue-veined,  was  shaped  for  splendor,  and  noble 
brows  guarded  the  vacant,  long-lashed  eyes.  In  the  piteous 
mouth  alone  was  any  trace  of  suffering  visible.  The  clear 
eyes  and  forehead,  the  dilated  nostrils,  fragile  as  porcelain,  had 
no  recollection  of  the  pain  by  which  they  had  been  purged 
into  what  they  were.  Miss  Moon  was  like  some  sea-shell, 
delicately  empty,  cast  high  upon  the  beach,  which  it  has  taken 
the  whole  cruel  ocean  to  blow  into  shape,  to  flute  and  carve 
and  lave  to  a  foam-like  whiteness.  Her  long —  surprisingly 
long — body  (could  it  be  that  she  was  only  twelve?)  was 
covered  by  a  Jaeger  rug,  and  no  movement  showed  anywhere 
saving,  when  the  tapering,  filigree  fingers  twitched,  tinily 
convulsive,  on  the  woolly,  fawn  colored  stuff. 

At  the  sound  of  a  latch-key  downstairs,  Joanna  rose  instinc- 
tively from  the  rocking-chair.  At  being  found  here  like  this 
she  felt  somehow  guilty. 

"  That's  my  Muwer,"  quoth  Rodney  undisturbed  in  his 
playing — if  the  word  "  play  "  could  be  applied  to  anything  so 
intent  as  his  occupation.  And  the  next  moment  his  mother 
entered. 

At  first  in  the  rather  dim  light  of  the  room — for  a  thunder- 


OPEN   THE    DOOR  275 

storm  was  gathering  outside  and  the  sky  had  darkened  within 
the  last  ten  minutes  to  a  threatening  degree — Joanna  took 
Trissie  Moon  to  be  a  woman  little  older  than  herself,  that  is 
to  say  some  years  under  thirty.  She  was  noticeably  neat 
in  figure,  girlishly  quick  in  movement,  and  her  face  with  its 
dusky  hair  looped  curtain-wise  over  her  ears,  seemed  very 
youthful  in  the  shadow  of  a  mushroom-shaped  hat. 

"Have  you  been  waiting  some  time?  I'm  so  sorry!  "  she 
exclaimed  with  an  exaggerated,  slightly  jarring  brightness. 
(She  was  your  hostess  apologizing  for  lateness  to  an  invited 
guest).  "That  Knaggs  man,  you  know,  will  talk  and  talk. 
All  I  wanted  was  to  get  Roddy's  bottle  re-filled;  but  he 
would  ask  about  Edwin,  and  were  we  going  away  at  all  this 
summer  though  we  couldn't  go  last,  nor  for  that  matter  the 
summer  before.  For  he  has  a  brother-in-law,  he  says,  who 
could  give  us  very  moderate  rooms  at  Dymchurch,  a  man 
called  Stabb  who  plays  the  'cello:  and  he  thought  Edwin 
and  this  man  Stabb,  if  only  they  could  find  a  third,  might  get 
up  some  trios  of  an  evening.  It  would  certainly  please  Edwin. 
I'll  tell  him  about  it  to-night.  But  I  doubt  if  it  could  be 
managed. — And  all  this  time  you  have  been  waiting!  "  she 
broke  off — "  Well,  I  hope  Sonny  has  done  the  honors." 

As  the  mother  caressed  her  child's  head  with  one  hand  (he 
ducking  away  from  her  impatiently)  she  took  off  her  hat  with 
the  other,  pressing  her  wrist  against  her  brow  a  moment  as  if 
to  placate  a  permanent  ache  there.  And  Joanna  saw  then 
how  superficial  had  been  that  first  impression  of  youthful- 
ness. 

Mrs.  Moon's  face  with  its  small,  almost  infantine  features, 
had  been  cruelly  used  by  trouble  and  the  years.  Under  the 
grayish  skin  there  was  a  bruised  look — the  dull  yellow  and 
purplish  marks  of  irreparable  fatigue;  and  the  tiny  ruptured 
blood-vessels  of  effort  beyond  recovery,  alone  gave  other 
color  to  her  cheeks.  Her  eyes  were  strangely  dilated,  still 
more  strangely  smiling,  as  if  to  deny  with  their  final  glance 
that  her  life  was  as  a  cord  perilously  stretched — near,  ever 
so  near  to  breaking  point.  On  she  talked  with  a  rattling 
inconsequent  gaiety  of  Mr.  Knaggs  the  chemist,  of  Roddy, 
of  Edwin  (whom  she  took  for  granted  Joanna  knew  to  be 
Mr.  Moon  and  no  other),  of  summer  holidays  in  the  long  past, 
in  the  highly  debatable  future. 

Very  soon  her  listener  had  to  abandon  any  attempt  at 


276  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

following  the  ins  and  outs  of  a  tale,  for  the  understanding  of 
which  an  essential  was  some  familiarity  with  the  people  and 
events  so  freely  referred  to  by  the  teller.  Instead  she  used 
her  energy  to  fight  down  the  sensation  she  had  of  watching  a 
sleep-walker  who  strayed  along  the  precarious  edge  of  a 
cliff.  In  time,  however,  by  putting  in  a  question  now  and 
then  she  did  gather  that  the  rooms  of  her  quest  were  empty 
through  the  perfidy  of  somebody  or  other.  Edwin,  the  unprac- 
tical, declared  Mrs.  Moon  with  a  wild  little  laugh,  had  only 
lately  abandoned  his  notion  of  turning  the  one  upstairs  into 
a  music-room,  the  one  over  the  archway  into 

At  this  point,  Joanna,  overjoyed,  succeeded  in  making  an 
interruption.  Was  the  room  over  the  archway  then  really 
one  of  the  two  that  were  to  be  let?  And  if  so,  might  she 
see  it? 

Full  at  once  of  apologies,  Mrs.  Moon  showed  her  the  rooms 
in  question  and  wanted  to  conduct  her  all  over  the  house. 

But  a  glimpse  was  enough. 

Small  the  rooms  were,  but  what  did  that  matter?  They 
were  attractive  in  shape,  and  had  clear  distempered  walls, 
upstairs  gray,  over  the  arch,  white.  And  they  were  cheap. 
While  her  landlady  resumed  her  nebulous  family  history, 
determined  to  be  impressive  yet  still  more  anxious  to  remain 
obscure,  Joanna  busied  herself  by  furnishing  her  new  quarters 
in  thought.  Upstairs  she  would  sleep.  Over  the  arch  would 
be  her  studio.  To  every  one  of  Mrs.  Moon's  ambiguous  sug- 
gestions about  charwomen,  latch-keys  and  the  like,  she  replied 
that  would  do  very  well.  Nor  would  she  wait  to  see  Mr. 
Moon  whose  return  from  a  professional  engagement  was  ex- 
pected at  any  moment.  Rather  by  the  piecing  together  of 
evidence  than  from  any  definite  statement,  she  had  discovered 
that  Edwin  was  employed  in  some  important  capacity  by  the 
undertaker  downstairs. 

As  she  crossed  the  road  again  on  her  return,  Joanna  looked 
back  at  the  archway  and  at  her  window  above  it.  No  dwelling 
in  her  experience — not  the  house  at  Collessie  Street,  not  the 
brown  villa  at  San  Gervasio,  not  the  whitewashed  farm  of 
Duntarvie  itself — had  been  so  dear  to  her  as  this  was  going 
to  be,  this  place  in  London  of  her  own  finding. 

And  on  Monday  she  would  bring  Louis.  He  should  see! 
Kilburn,  he  had  said:  Maida  Vale:  West  Hampstead!  It  was 
in  May  fair  she  would  live,  and  nowhere  else.  As  her  pleased 


OPENTHEDOOR  277 

eye  passed  to  the  window  of  the  shop  below,  her  lover's  face, 
as  she  would  see  it  two  days  hence,  rose  vividly  before  her. 
"  So  convenient  too!  " — she  could  hear  him  speaking,  could 
see  the  whimsical,  affectionate  twist  of  his  lips. — "  So  very 
convenient:  you  can  be  buried  whenever  you  like!  " 

Xo  longer  had  she  the  slightest  fear  of  the  coming  meeting. 
Everything  would  be  all  right  now.  And  she  stood  there  in 
the  middle  of  the  road  in  Mayfair,  and  laughed  with  satis- 
faction. 

n 

In  Joanna's  life  hitherto,  no  period  had  contained  so  pro- 
longed a  rapture  of  enjoyment  as  the  six  months  that  followed 
her  entering  into  possession  of  the  room  above  the  arch- 
way. 

Louis  in  London  was  better  than  Louis  in  Glasgow  in  fifty 
ways.  His  spirits  were  both  higher  and  more  equable;  he 
was  kinder,  yet  at  the  same  time  far  more  passionate.  And  if 
he  was  also  busier,  telling  her  seriously  each  time  they  parted 
that  his  punctual  appearance  at  their  next  tryst  might  be 
prevented  by  circumstances  unforeseeable,  this  was  largely 
balanced  by  two  facts.  One  was  the  geographical  fact  of  his 
nearness:  the  other  the  physical  fact  of  her  own  entire  free- 
dom. There  was  a  telephone  downstairs  in  the  undertaker's 
office  at  Chapel  Court  by  which  means  he  would  be  able 
to  warn  her  of  any  ordinary  changes  in  his  plans,  and  by 
this  same  means  at  certain  hours  of  the  day  Joanna  knew  she 
could  have  speech  of  him  at  his  club. 

But  so  far  in  these  five  months  Louis  had  never  once  failed 
her,  and  she  had  begun  to  doubt  the  possibility  of  such  a  thing 
happening.  Neither  had  he  been  away  from  London  longer 
than  a  couple  of  days  at  a  time,  saving  for  two  weeks  during 
August,  the  two  empty  weeks  which  Joanna  spent  quite 
happily  in  Scotland  with  her  mother  and  Linnet. 

From  the  very  first  a  fresh  element  of  delight  had  entered 
their  meetings.  On  the  Monday  after  her  arrival  she  had 
flown  confidently  to  the  place  appointed  between  them,  and 
that  evening  had  returned  to  Georgie,  radiant  as  from  a  corona- 
tion. Louis  had  betrayed  extravagant  gladness  at  seeing  her, 
had  been  lost  in  admiration  of  Chapel  Court  and  every- 
thing therein,  had  generously  given  her  the  credit  not  merely 
for  finding  it,  but  for  a  dozen  charms  he  was  the  first  to  see 


278  OPEN   THE    DOOR 

there,  had  himself  re-discovered  the  beauty  of  the  Green  Park 
in  his  delighted  showing  of  it  to  her.  To  her  joy  she  had  gone 
up  instead  of  down  in  her  lover's  eyes  by  comparison  with  the 
London  women  whose  rivalry  she  had  feared.  And  in  her 
eyes  his  face  in  the  new  environment  had  acquired  a  fresh, 
peculiar  quality  of  intimacy  which  was  inexpressibly  dear. 
By  his  glances,  and  by  many  small,  involuntary  movements  of 
guardianship  as  he  piloted  her  about  the  streets  and  watched 
over  her  impressions,  he  seemed  to  acknowledge  a  responsi- 
bility she  had  not  once  thrust  upon  him.  It  warmed  and 
established  her  to  feel  his  real  care  for  her  happiness:  it 
touched  him  to  chivalry  to  see  how  simply  that  happiness 
was  attained.  He  laughed  at  her  childish  jubilation  over  the 
furnishing  of  Number  Five.  Yet  of  the  two  it  may  be  ques- 
tioned whether  he  were  not  the  greater  child.  He  regarded 
both  her  and  her  house  as  his  most  exquisite  playthings. 

And  all  these  joys,  this  delicious  newness  of  enjoyment 
after  nearly  three  years  of  love,  were  heightened  by  a  season  of 
surpassing  beauty.  A  fine,  very  hot  summer  was  succeeded 
by  an  even  lovelier  autumn,  and  every  sunset  seemed  to 
participate  in  Joanna's  elation. 

On  the  June  morning  when  she  went  forth  alone  to  buy  her 
first  chairs  and  tables,  it  would  not  have  surprised  her  had 
her  half  consumed  body  been  drawn  up  swiftly  through  space 
till  it  was  lost  in  the  life-giving,  life-taking  heart  of  the  sun. 
A  man  passing  along  the  gutter  of  Tottenham  Court  Road 
had  boards  hanging  from  his  shoulders. 

THE  LORD  HIMSELF!— Joanna  read  thereon— 

SHALL  DESCEND  FROM  HEAVEN  WITH  A 

SHOUT! 

— and  instinctively,  expectantly  she  had  looked  skyward. 
There  would  need  a  god,  no  less,  appearing  in  radiant  omnipo- 
tence, to  comprehend  such  ecstasy  as  hers. 

And  surely  that  god  would  wear  the  transfigured  face  of 
Louis  himself!  Louis  had  been  better  than  his  word.  He 
had  given  her  the  world.  London  was  hers  like  a  jewel. 
And  how  easily  she  wore  it!  She  was  already  at  home,  with- 
out shyness,  in  the  Moon  household:  with  a  few  instructions 
given  by  Carl  and  by  Mildred,  she  had  soon  found  she  might 
enter  almost  any  studio  she  pleased:  by  means  of  her  cousin 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  279 

Irene  she  could  if  she  chose,  make  the  passage  to  more  con- 
ventional society.  And  at  the  back  of  all  these  manifesta- 
tions of  worldly  fulfilment  stood  Louis.  But  for  Louis  not 
one  of  the  paths  opened  by  circumstances  would  have  profited 
her.  Because  of  Louis  she  tripped  along  them  with  the  light 
feet  of  success.  And  because  of  Louis  she  needed  none  of 
these  paths  at  all.  For  worldly  possession  also  is  a  spiritual 
achievement. 

in 

It  was  four  o'clock  on  a  cold  but  fine  afternoon  in  November 
when  Joanna  set  out  to  pay  her  first  call  upon  Cousin  Irene. 

She  had  asked  Georgie  more  than  once  to  come  with  her, 
but  Georgie  had  refused  with  bridal  self-importance.  She 
would  think,  said  she,  of  leaving  cards  on  Irene  when  Irene 
had  been  to  see  her.  She,  not  Irene,  was  the  new  married 
wife.  Besides  only  let  Joanna  think  for  a  moment  of  how 
Max  compared  in  any  scale  of  public  importance  with  Irene's 
husband.  ("  Rising  M.P.  indeed!  "  exclaimed  Georgie  in 
hearty  scorn.  "  That  he  may  have  been  when  Irene  married 
him.  I  told  Max  that  was  what  they  called  him  in  the  Scots- 
man. But  Max  says  he  has  done  no  more  rising  since  than 
a  piece  of  unleavened  bread.")  For  Joanna  to  go  was  quite 
different — Georgie  allowed  that.  Indeed  she  took  to  urging 
her  younger  sister  to  call  and  report.  Irene's  children,  whose 
pictures  she  had  seen  in  the  illustrated  papers  were  apparently 
very  pretty.  But  all  girls!  And  at  this  observation  Georgie 
had  smiled  mysteriously.  It  would  appear  that  she  herself 
had  a  foreknowledge  of  being  the  mother  of  sons. 

So  Joanna,  upon  a  day  just  five  months  after  her  arrival, 
had  arrayed  herself  in  her  London  clothes  and  betaken  herself 
to  Bryanston  Square  where  Irene's  house  was.  It  was  now 
some  time  since  she  had  acquired,  partly  by  the  help  of  Louis, 
still  more  by  instinct,  the  outline  of  a  fashionable  young 
woman.  And  with  that  had  come  what  she  had  so  envied  her 
cousin  long  ago — a  free,  self-contained  assurance  of  manner. 
Yet  on  an  occasion  of  this  kind  she  could  not  escape  a  half- 
amused  consciousness  of  masquerading. 

She  felt  something  of  this  now  as  she  sailed  gallantly  up 
the  very  middle  of  her  cousin's  flight  of  steps  and  rang  the 
bell.  Surely  the  servant  opening  the  door  would  see  through 
her  disguise!  Or  if  the  servant  should  be  deceived,  Irene 


280  OPENTHEDOOR 

with  a  glance  would  strip  her  naked  and  expose  her  in  her 
ineradicable  wildness. 

While  she  stood  there,  loosening  her  dark  furs  and  glancing 
over  her  shoulder  at  the  square,  two  men  passed  along  the 
pavement.  One  was  young,  the  other  middle-aged  with  a 
fine  worldly  face  and  great  pouches  of  well-survived  dissipa- 
tion beneath  his  keen  eyes.  Both  looked  up  at  her,  and  from 
head  to  heel  she  was  sensible  of  their  approval.  As  she  watched 
their  course  to  the  corner  a  few  yards  off,  glad  that  their  cour- 
tesy forbade  a  backward  glance,  she  knew  as  if  she  had  heard 
their  speech  that  when  the  elder  turned  his  head  to  the 
younger  it  was  to  praise  her.  Then,  masquerader  or  no,  she 
was  accepted  by  this  London  at  its  best! 

But  even  more  than  to  her  own  success,  Joanna  at  that 
moment  had  been  alive  to  the  attractiveness  of  the  two  men 
simply  as  male  creatures.  And  here,  strange  as  it  may  seem, 
was  an  experience  unknown  to  her  before  her  coming  to  Lon- 
don. Till  then  she  had  been  penetrable  only  by  an  individual 
fascination.  But  now,  in  her  awakened  state  so  long  deferred, 
all  the  tortured,  sighing  boys,  all  the  cynical  men  of  experi- 
ence, all  the  world-weary  elders  might  have  taken  her.  It 
was  by  their  ignorance  alone  that  she  went  safe  among  them. 
Or  perhaps  by  the  fact  that  in  Louis  she  possessed  them  all. 

Just  as  the  two  men  went  round  the  corner — the  younger 
only  then  permitting  himself  a  swift  half  turn  of  the  head  in 
Joanna's  direction — Irene's  glossy  double  doors,  which  till 
this  moment  had  confronted  the  visitor  forbiddingly,  were  flung 
wide  with  a  great  show  of  hospitality  by  two  smiling,  be- 
streamered  maid-servants. 

"Just  like  Aunt  Georgina's!  "  thought  Joanna  smiling, 
but  not  without  a  shiver  of  the  old  terror,  as  she  passed  in 
between  them.  She  recollected  a  remark  made  recently  by 
her  cousin  Mabel,  that  the  house  in  Bryanston  Square  was 
but  a  reproduction  brought  up  to  date  of  the  parental  home 
in  Edinburgh.  It  had  been  a  crank  of  cranky  old  Lord  Wester- 
muir's  that  two  women,  and  not  the  butler,  should  attend  the 
front  door  of  a  town  house:  and  many  a  time  poor  Juley, 
gathering  her  brood  about  her  skirts  for  the  ordeal,  had 
likened  herself  to  that  pilgrim  whose  way  ran  betwixt  two 
lions. 

In  the  drawing-room  Irene  was  combining  the  parts  of 
hostess  and  Mamma  before  an  audience  of  two  women  friends, 


OPENTHEDOOR  281 

and  she  afforded  the  vaguest  of  fashionable  introductions  to 
her  cousin.  Joanna  found  her  less  fluffy  than  of  old  and  more 
substantial.  The  attractive  frothiness  had  disappeared  in 
favor  of  body,  as  it  will  with  a  glass  of  ale  which  has  been 
let  stand  for  a  while.  Indeed  with  her  fair  hair,  and  her  dress  of 
smooth  yellowish  satin,  Irene  might  well  have  conveyed  the 
suggestion  of  pale,  full  bodied  ale,  had  not  Joanna  from  the 
first  moment  been  constrained  to  ransack  her  small  zoological 
memory  for  an  analogy  still  more  apt.  A  camel!  That  was 
it!  Cousin  Irene  was  like  a  camel.  But  she  was  like  such 
an  elegant,  well-tended  and  most  lofty  full-grown  camel, 
that  Joanna,  even  while  she  laughed  in  secret,  was  impressed 
and  rendered  slightly  nervous. 

The  three  children  in  their  white  embroideries  and  crisp 
ribbons  had  but  that  minute  emerged  from  the  nursery  for 
inspection,  and  the  sunny-haired  cherub  of  a  baby  sat  in 
Mamma's  silken  lap  and  played  with  Mamma's  long  amber 
necklace.  They  were  sweet  looking  little  girls  enough.  But 
for  the  life  of  her  Joanna  could  not  see  them  as  other  than 
elegant,  well-tended  little  camels — just  three  camels  like 
Mamma,  saving  that  for  the  moment  they  were  blessed  with 
youth.  And  her  thoughts  reverted  with  passionate  preference 
to  that  other  group  of  children  she  had  come  to  love  in  Chapel 
Court.  There  was  poor  beautiful  Edvina  whose  soul  was  gone 
elsewhere,  there  was  Roddy  with  his  intent  jewel-like  eyes, 
and  there  was  little  Ollie  Garland,  a  neighbor's  child,  round- 
faced  and  timorous,  who  came  almost  daily  to  play  in  Number 
Five  while  her  mother  sought  a  precarious  foothold  in  Fleet 
Street.  What  had  these  three  that  was  wanting  in  Irene's 
glossy  babies?  Wherein  lay  the  essential  difference?  That 
it  was  not  merely  external  she  felt  sure.  Convinced  as  Joanna 
was  of  her  own  correctness  in  all  outward  appearance,  she 
felt  exposed  beneath  the  glances  of  Irene's  friends.  And 
even  the  children — or  was  this  her  fancy  only?  seemed  to  watch 
her  closely  and  defensively,  as  they  would  have  watched 
some  being  of  another  species.  As  for  Irene  herself,  one  could 
hardly  be  insensible  to  the  curiosity,  the  hostility,  the  calcu- 
lation of  her  travelling  eyes. 

There  it  was:  Joanna  and  her  kind  were  different,  and  always 
would  be  different  from  Irene  and  Irene's  kind,  and  as  she 
replied  formally  to  Irene's  perfunctory  family  inquiries,  this 
difference  became  even  more  manifest.  Joanna  now  possessed 


282  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

the  world  as  Irene  would  never  possess  it,  but  for  that  very 
reason  she  could  never  be  a  part  with  its  essence. 

But  happening  to  introduce  Fender's  name  into  the  flagging 
conversation,  and  seeing  the  quickening  of  interest  in  the  faces 
of  Irene  and  her  guests  (Cousin  Mabel  had  also  said  that  if 
Irene  might  not  regard  any  given  London  celebrity  as  a  friend, 
that  celebrity  must  be  at  least  "  the  friend  of  a  friend ") 
Joanna's  first  conception  of  her  difference  contracted  into  a 
pettier  defiance. 

Could  it  be  that  something  in  her  looks  had  betrayed  her 
secret?  Of  a  certainty  she  had  not  till  this  moment  realized 
how  increasingly  during  the  past  six  months  she  had  been 
forced  into  thinking  of  her  love  as  an  intrigue.  With  the  flam- 
ing up  of  passion  between  herself  and  Louis  in  the  new  environ- 
ment, had  come  the  increased  necessity  for  secrecy.  Here 
he  was  among  his  friends.  If  Joanna  wished  to  keep  their 
happiness  she  must  guard  it  jealously,  must  measure  its  safety 
continually  by  the  world's  standards.  It  had  been  easy  to 
blind  herself  to  these  exigencies  by  the  very  ardor  with  which 
Louis  had  imposed  them.  Never  had  he  showed  himself 
so  fearful  of  losing  her:  and  was  not  that  enough?  But  now, 
as  Irene  went  on  to  ask  why  Georgie  had  never  called,  and, 
with  a  drawl  accentuated  to  conceal  a  more  genuine  curiosity, 
put  questions  about  Georgie's  husband  (clearly  known  by 
repute  both  to  her  and  to  her  guests)  Joanna  had  a  swift 
horrified  glimpse  of  herself  rather  as  the  world's  prey  than 
as  its  possessor.  Was  this  the  price  demanded?  A  chasm 
of  misery  and  shame  seemed  to  open  beneath  her  feet. 

As  soon  as  she  could,  she  rose  and  made  her  escape.  Irene 
had  announced  her  intention  of  calling  upon  Georgie  within 
a  few  days;  had  accorded  an  invitation  for  one  of  her  forth- 
coming "  evenings  "  to  Joanna.  The  visit  was  over. 


Once  in  the  open  air  she  was  happy  again.  It  was  as  if 
she  were  rushing  from  Irene's  doorstep  to  meet  again  her  own 
palpitating  and  lovely  existence,  left  there  waiting  outside 
in  the  street. 

Though  winter  had  followed  early  upon  autumn,  a  beautiful 
day  was  expiring  with  the  lighting  of  the  lamps,  and  the 
young,  living  woman  drew  the  blue  and  gold  freshness  of  the 


OPENTHEDOOR  283 

West  end  square  into  her  lungs  with  an  access  of  vigor  which 
in  itself  was  delight. 

She  was  going  to  meet  Louis  in  Piccadilly.  They  would  walk 
awhile,  and  then  return  together  to  Chapel  Court  where  supper 
was  prepared.  For  a  wonder  he  had  not  only  the  late  after- 
noon but  all  the  evening  free.  And  Joanna  had  strung  Chinese 
lanterns  across  her  archway  room  for  welcome  and  delight. 
Again  and  again  during  the  day  she  had  lived  beforehand 
through  that  moment  when  the  door  would  be  shut  on  the 
outside  world.  Into  that  first  embrace  would  go  the  emotion 
of  her  solitary  morning's  work,  her  strong  attraction  by  the 
two  passing  men,  her  scorn  of  Irene,  her  tenderness  for  Ollie 
and  Roddy,  her  voluptuous  breathing  of  the  elixir  of  London. 
Louis  should  have  them  all. 

A  clock  struck  half-past  four,  and  though  her  tryst  was  for 
a  quarter  past  five,  Joanna  fell  into  a  panic  at  the  strokes  of 
the  bell  and  hailed  a  taxi-cab,  asking  the  man  to  take  her  to 
the  nearer  end  of  Bond  Street. 

After  five  months  in  London  she  was  still  strangely  ignorant 
of  directions.  Mention  Regent  Street  to  her  and  she  would 
see  a  wide  current  of  sparkling  shallows  down  which  she  had 
often  gone  in  a  gay  drifting  from  pavement  to  pavement, 
drawn  now  to  one  side,  now  to  the  other,  by  the  lure  of  the 
shops  on  either  hand.  Speak  of  Trafalgar  Square,  and  there 
would  rise  a  great  tilted  expanse  of  stone,  stone  palaces  full 
of  treasures  surrounding  it,  dazzling  white  clouds  above 
it — a  man  walking  past  the  iron  railings  of  a  church  with  a 
basketful  of  tulips  on  his  head,  yellow  and  scarlet  tulips  that 
had  bright  blue  paper  wound  about  their  stems — Louis  had 
kissed  her  in  Trafalgar  Square  suddenly,  unexpectedly,  had 
kissed  her  in  broad  daylight — amid  the  sound  of  fountains, 
blown  spray,  the  calling  of  the  high,  children's  voices — .  But 
put  Joanna  in  Regent  Street,  and  ask  her  to  point  the  way  to 
Trafalgar  Square:  and  she  could  not  have  done  it. 

Set  down  however  by  her  taxi-cab  at  the  northern  corner  of 
Bond  Street  she  felt  herself  fairly  safe  afoot  for  Piccadilly 
(unless  indeed — always  with  her  a  possibility — the  streets 
during  the  past  night  should  have  been  dissolved  and  crystal- 
lized anew).  And  her  reason  insisted  further  that  she  had 
fully  thrice  the  time  the  walk  needed.  So  with  her  mind 
tolerably  at  rest  she  took  her  way  at  leisure  among  the  other 
leisurely,  well-groomed  men  and  women. 


284  OPEN    THE    DOOR 

She  went  gazing  with  discretion,  now  at  the  people  who 
fascinated  her  by  their  sophisticated  faces  and  movements, 
now  at  the  jewelled  windows  of  the  shops,  now  at  the  pure 
and  quivering  sky  that  arched  itself  like  an  iridescent  bubble 
over  many-masted  London. 

And  once,  not  so  long  ago,  she  had  hated  this  same  London! 
On  the  brief  visit  before  her  marriage,  and  upon  her  return 
as  a  widow,  during  the  few  days  spent  with  Georgie,  it  had 
oppressed  her  almost  to  death.  But  now  Louis  had  given  it 
to  her  like  a  plaything,  and  she  carried  always  in  her  breast 
a  secret  talisman  of  passion. 

It  was  hers,  all  hers — the  mounting  sky,  the  decorous  people, 
the  precious  stuffs,  the  gold  and  silver  and  rubies  brought 
together  from  the  ends  of  the  earth.  Only  a  trifling  accident 
of  circumstances  prevented  her  from  laying  immediate  hands 
upon  those  of  her  treasures  which  she  most  fancied  at  the 
moment.  Her  essential  knowledge  of  possession  was  no  whit 
disturbed  by  the  unimportant  fact  that  behind  any  of  these 
shining  panes  she  would  be  asked  to  pay  money  before  she 
might  carry  her  own  goods  away.  Not  all  the  riches  of  Solomon 
will  buy  such  a  sense  of  possession. 

Besides,  in  money  also  Joanna  felt  herself  rich.  She  had 
come  to  London  with  a  hundred  pounds — part  her  own  sav- 
ings, part  a  gift  from  her  mother,  and  for  the  present  she  was 
being  allowed  as  well  seven  pounds  a  month.  Soon  she  would 
be  able  to  write  home  and  declare  herself  independent  of  this. 
From  the  first  by  her  keeping  in  touch  with  her  Glasgow 
employer,  the  draper,  irregular  sums  had  come  her  way;  and 
lately  through  one  of  Carl's  London  introductions,  a  new  and 
steadier  means  of  earning  had  presented  itself.  This  involved 
the  sketching  of  dresses  at  the  theatre,  a  pursuit  bringing  with 
it  considerable  excitement.  For  Joanna  at  the  theatre  was 
still  easily  carried  away  by  the  glittering  show  of  the  world 
there  spread  so  cunningly  before  her.  It  was  the  theatre 
rather  than  the  play  that  affected  her.  And  so  it  was  with  the 
more  experienced  Louis.  Did  they  go  together,  it  was  to 
musical  comedy.  Joanna  had  no  choice,  and  Louis,  with  only 
occasional  lapses  into  boredom,  liked  the  music,  the  prettiness, 
the  absurdity,  the  deliverance  from  contact  with  reality  there 
to  be  found.  Also  he  would  point  out  how  much  more  grateful 
to  the  eye  the  audiences  attending  this  kind  of  piece. 

Afterwards  they  wou!4  quarrel  happily  over  the  catchy  tunes. 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  285 

"No!  You  go  wrong  there!  This  is  how  it  went!  " 
Louis  would  cry,  clapping  his  hands  over  Joanna's  mouth. 
"  Ta-ra-ra-tiddy-iddy-iddy-um-a-tum !  "  And  she  would  dis- 
pute it,  until  at  length  they  got  it  right  between  them  with 
a  warm,  unbounded  sense  of  friendship. 

There!  Just  as  Joanna  came  within  sight  of  the  Piccadilly 
traffic,  a  piano-organ  struck  up  one  of  the  airs  she  and  Louis 
had  first  heard  together  four  months  ago  at  the  Gaiety. 
Since  then  how  many  recollections  must  that  same  refrain, 
repetitive  as  the  call  of  a  bird,  have  stored  within  itself  for 
a  thousand  scattered  lovers!  To  Joanna  it  recalled  every 
least  incident  of  their  return  from  the  theatre  that  breathless 
midsummer  night  when  the  stars  had  been  like  a  million  golden 
bees  swarming  in  the  dark  hive  of  the  sky. 

And  now,  drawing  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  end  of  Bond 
Street,  walking  more  and  more  slowly,  vibrating  with  greater 
and  greater  violence  to  the  surety  that  Louis,  if  not  already 
there,  was  hastening  towards  the  place,  Joanna  felt  afraid. 
The  passers-by  must  see  her,  thought  she,  moving  among  them 
like  a  blazing  torch  dangerous  to  their  safety.  And  seeing 
her  so,  would  they  not  contrive  to  put  her  out  of  being? 
She  had  the  real  fear  that  they  would.  But  even  if  they  did 
not,  must  she  not  of  herself  be  consumed,  must  she  not 
unhindered  shoot  upwards,  a  mere  dissolving  flame? 


rv 

But  when  she  saw  the  face  with  which  her  lover  was  hurry- 
ing towards  her,  her  heart  dropped  like  a  shot  bird. 

"  I'm  so  sorry,  my  dear;  so  frightfully  sorry — "  he  began 
to  speak  at  once  and  with  rapidity  almost  before  they  had 
met — "  I  can't  tell  you  how  sorry  I  am,  how  disappointed: 
but  our  evening  has  fallen  through.  What's  her  name — 
Marietta,  my  new  daughter-in-law,  has  turned  up.  It  was 
at  the  last  moment  and  quite  unexpected.  How  I  got  here 
at  all  I  hardly  know.  But  I  remembered  the  telephone  was 
no  use  to-day  as  you  were  going  out  early,  and  I  hated  to 
fail  you  altogether." 

Side  by  side  they  turned,  instinctively  shunning  the  bustle 
of  Piccadilly,  and  they  had  walked  some  way  up  Dover  Street 
before  Joanna  could  speak  in  reply.  All  her  being,  so  exult- 
antly exposed  till  a  moment  ago,  now  labored  under  the 


286  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

reverse  it  had  suffered.  It  would  take  her  a  little  while  to 
recover. 

"  You  know,  my  dearest  heart,"  pleaded  Louis  anxiously, 
his  eyes  on  her  unhappy  face.  "  If  you  are  to  be  so  upset 
when  this  happens,  we  shall  have  to  make  an  end.  You  must 
know  it  can't  be  helped  at  times.  Come:  cheer  up!  I  can 
tell  you  it  is  as  bad  for  me  as  for  you.  Worse  perhaps.  I 
was  living  all  day  to-day  for  the  evening.  That  dear  little 
room  of  yours.  You  know  I  was.  You  know  there  isn't  a 
place  on  earth  where  I'm  half  so  happy,  so  peaceful?  You 
do  know?  "  he  urged,  touching  her  arm  appealingly  as  she  re- 
mained silent.  "  Don't  you?  Say  you  do!  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  then?  " 

But  while  they  drank  tea  in  a  shop — Louis  having  decided 
that  he  might  risk  just  ten  minutes  longer  with  her — he  fell 
to  talking  quite  gaily  of  his  son's  wife. 

"  She's  a  nice,  charming  girl,"  he  declared.  "  I  must  say 
it.  With  the  most  splendid  yellow  hair  you  ever  saw  in  your 
life."  And  he  kissed  the  tips  of  his  fingers  to  the  air  in 
worship  of  Marietta's  tresses.  "  Rather  a  fine  person  in  her- 
self, too,  I  shouldn't  be  surprised,"  he  added  more  soberly. 
And  he  went  on  to  hope  that  Marietta  would  sit  for  him.  But 
he  suspected  she  was  already  in  the  way  to  make  him  a  grand- 
father. 

"Me!  A  grandfather,  Joanna!  Think  of  it!  I'll  have  to 
reform  my  character,  shan't  I?  Yet  how  preposterous  that 
anyone  should  regard  you  as  a  siren  who  is  leading  my  gray 
hairs  to  perdition!  " 

Perhaps  Louis  however  was  not  so  sure  after  all.  Anyhow 
within  two  minutes  he  was  bewailing  that  he  and  Joanna  were 
lovers. 

"  I  so  often  long,"  he  confessed,  "  to  have  you  up  to  the 
house  and  show  you  off  to  my  friends.  There's  to-night.  I 
know  you  would  like  Marietta  and  she  you.  We  could  have 
all  sorts  of  pleasant  times.  And  I'd  be  so  proud  of  you.  But 
things  as  they  are,  spoil  all  that.  Do  you  remember  my 
bringing  old  Perrin  out  to  Chapel  Court  to  see  you?  And 
how  horribly  self-conscious  we  all  were?  " 

Joanna  assented  but  without  speaking.  Somehow,  though 
Perrin  had  been  as  friendly  and  courteous  as  possible,  she 
could  not  bear  to  be  reminded  of  his  visit. 


OPENTHEDOOR  287 

"  You  are  too  good  for  this  kind  of  thing,  Joanna.  That's 
the  trouble,"  said  Louis,  gloomy  and  worried.  And  he  looked 
at  his  watch. 

(What  a  strange  echo  was  there  of  something  Bob  had  said 
long,  long  ago! )  Joanna  lifting  eyes  full  of  pain  to  his  face, 
mutely  opened  her  lips  once,  twice  before  die  words  came. 

"  Is  any  woman  too  good  to  be  loved?  "  she  asked  at 
last. 

He  gave  her  a  startled  glance  and  his  mouth  formed  a  word 
of  sincere  response,  but  he  checked  himself  and  veered  off 
impatiently. 

"  What's  the  use  of  talking?  "  he  protested.  "  With  you 
and  me  it  had  to  be  like  this,  and  that's  all  about  it.  Besides 
hasn't  it  been  worth  it?  If  it  were  all  to  end  to-day,  hasn't 
it  been  worth  it  again  and  again?  For  me  it  has.  I  shall 
never  go  back  on  that.  But  for  you?  " 

"  For  me  too,"  answered  Joanna  looking  at  him  sadly. 
And  even  though  her  lips  shook,  she  repeated  the  affirmation 
steadily,  like  a  knell. — "  For  me  too." 

"I'll  tell  you  what!"  said  he,  leaning  forwards  towards 
her  with  energy.  "  I'll  tell  you  what,  Joanna!  All  the 
rest  of  life  is  either  a  labor  or  a  bore.  That's  what  it  comes 
to.  And  it  may  be  as  well  to  keep  love  quite  separate. 
'  Better  face  facts,'  a  man  said  to  me  once,  '  and  never  mix 
up  love  and  marriage.'  And  there  is  some  truth  in  it,  don't 
you  think  so?  Come!  "  he  continued,  rallying  her  affec- 
tionately. "  Dear,  pretty  one,  you  mustn't  look  so  sorrowful. 
Tell  me — I  have  only  two  minutes  more — tell  me  where  you 
were  calling  this  afternoon?  Was  it  on  friends  of  your  sister? 
Garden  Suburb  people  with  sandals  and  djibbahs?  " 

Doing  violence  to  herself,  Joanna  gave  Louis  quite  a  lively 
account  of  the  visit  in  Bryanston  Square.  He  laughed  at  her 
description  of  camels  great  and  little,  and  showed  interest 
when  she  mentioned  the  name  of  Lady  Pilkington  as  one  of 
Irene's  guests. 

"  Pilkington?  Why  that  must  be  the  explorer  man's  wife?  " 
he  interrupted.  "  Perrin  is  always  talking  of  bringing  them 
round.  He  pointed  them  out  one  night  in  the  theatre.  Is 
she  good-looking?  She  made  no  impression  whatever  on  me. 
But  what  a  fine  ugly  brute  the  man  is!  I'd  be  glad  of  a  chance 
to  paint  that  queer,  almost  devilish,  triangular  mug  of 
his!  " 


288  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

Louis  pondered  for  a  moment. 

"  I'll  tell  you  a  secret,  my  girl,"  he  continued  warmly. 
"And  you  alone,  mind!  Of  late  I've  got  a  fresh  glimpse  of 
things.  If  only  I  could  somehow  beat  out  to  it,  I  believe  I 
should  see  my  new  way  clear." 

For  Louis  to  speak  in  this  way  of  his  work  was  rare.  And 
when  he  went  on  with  diffident  excitement  to  describe  to  her 
the  beginnings  of  a  new  picture,  Joanna  was  far  more  stirred 
than  by  words  of  love.  Was  this  at  last  the  budding  between 
them  that  she  had  longed  for?  If  so  Louis  was  hers,  she  his, 
even  though  the  solid  world  should  sunder  them.  She  need 
have  no  fear. 

She  was  unhappy  again,  however,  when  the  conversation 
returned  to  Irene,  and  with  a  heat  astonishing  to  herself,  she 
was  presently  championing  the  people  of  the  Garden  Suburb 
by  comparison  with  the  Irenes  and  the  Pilkingtons.  The 
discussion  indeed  was  rapidly  assuming  the  features  of  a 
familiar  quarrel  between  them. 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Joanna  antagonistically, 
when  Louis  with  hardening  eyes  had  re-stated  his  inveterate 
preference  for  the  world  of  fashion,  "  I  know  Georgie's  friends 
are  rather  '  awful.'  But  they  really  are  interested  in  ideas, 
and  the  Irenes  aren't.  Isn't  that  a  great  thing?  " 

Louis  looked  elaborately  bored. 

"  It  may  be,"  he  conceded  in  fretful  hostility,  "  though  I 
think  it's  open  to  question  whether  these  dire-looking  people 
who  take  themselves  so  seriously  are  really  the  ones  to  help 
things  on.  Whether  or  no,  I  can't  help  my  own  liking  for 
more  comfortable  society.  Can  I?  " 

To  this  Joanna  agreed,  but  unhappily.  For  there  had  been 
that  in  his  voice  which  proclaimed  a  discord  in  himself.  And, 
as  many  a  time  before,  she  had  the  vision  of  him  as  a  man 
torn  in  twain. 

But  now,  their  ten  minutes  being  long  exceeded,  he  must  go 
his  ways  and  she  hers. 

"  Pay  no  attention  to  my  moods,"  he  begged  at  parting. 
"  Remember  that,  anyhow  so  far  as  you  are  concerned,  they 
mean  nothing.  Things  are  difficult  for  me;  that's  all.  For 
you  too,  my  dear.  Don't  I  know?  You  need  never  tell 
me.  I  know  everything.  I  appreciate  everything  more  than 
you  can  ever  guess.  It  is  never  out  of  my  mind  what  you 
do  for  me,  what  you  are  to  me.  So,  Joanna,  bear  up  if  you 


OPENTHEDOOR  289 

can.    You  are  the  good  thing  in  my  life.     Don't  leave  go  of 
me.    Without  you  I  should  be  in  the  mire." 
Next  moment  he  was  gone  in  his  taxi-cab  leaving  her  alone. 


She  walked  back  to  Chapel  Court,  and  all  the  way  she  was 
trying  to  draw  the  sustenance  she  terribly  needed,  from  her 
lover's  parting  words  and  demeanor.  Her  efforts  met  with 
some  success:  especially  when  she  dwelt  upon  the  last  look 
he  had  given  her,  a  look  of  solicitude  that  was  at  once  sincere 
and  helpless.  But  she  no  longer  flitted  through  the  streets 
like  a  flame.  She  went  weighed  down,  unconscious  of  all 
about  her,  quenched,  closed  in  upon  herself,  slow-moving  as 
a  deep-sea  diver. 

Since  her  coming  to  London,  there  had  been  only  one  inci- 
dent to  match  with  this.  It  had  happened  months  ago,  and 
had  since  been  made  light  of  in  memory.  But  under  present 
stress  it  came  back  to  her  with  vengeful  clearness. 

Rather  early  one  morning  she  had  been  alone  in  town, 
and  was  crossing  a  part  of  Oxford  Street  almost  clear  of  traffic 
at  that  moment,  when  an  open  taxi-cab  drove  quickly  past. 
In  it  was  Louis,  with  another  man  towards  whom  his  face 
was  turned  in  laughing  expostulation.  Though  Joanna  was 
already  near  the  middle  of  the  roadway  he  did  not  see  her. 
And  next  moment  he  was  gone. 

It  was  nothing  of  course.  Joanna  knew  that  as  well  as 
anyone  could.  She  was  well  aware  that  Louis  must  inevit- 
ably drive  about  with  friends  in  taxi-cabs,  just  as  he  walked, 
talked  and  ate  with  men  and  women  she  never  saw,  men  and 
women  who,  taken  together,  were  as  nothing  in  his  life  com- 
pared with  herself.  She  fully  realized  also  that  it  was  by 
mere  accident  she  had  now  for  the  first  time  seen  him  entirely 
out  of  contact  with  herself.  To-morrow  he  would  be  sure  to 
tell  her  all  about  his  companion,  his  destination  at  that  early 
hour,  even  the  subject  of  his  expostulation.  And  they  would 
laugh  together  over  the  spasm  of  jealous  emotion. 

But  it  was  the  first  time.  And  there  Joanna  had  stood, 
in  the  middle  of  the  roadway,  quite  bereft,  and  staring  after 
the  taxi-cab  as  if  in  its  swift  passage  it  had  snatched  her  very 
soul  from  her.  Another  driver  had  to  shout  at  her  in  a  fury. 
He  had  only  just  saved  himself  from  knocking  her  over. 

Yes,  in  the  face  of  all  reason  it  had  been  a  bitter  experi- 


2QO  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

ence.  The  sense  her  lover  had  conveyed  of  inhabiting  a 
world  from  which  she  was  excluded,  his  animation,  his  com- 
plete unconsciousness  of  her  presence,  the  impossibility  of 
thrusting  her  presence  upon  him  by  a  gesture: — these  had 
been  bitterness.  And  in  these  he  had  played  but  an  involun- 
tary part.  In  this  new  failure  he  was  both  conscious  and 
acquiescent! 

With  deathly  apprehension  Joanna  beheld  a  future  full  of 
similar  failures, — involuntary  failure  alternating  with  failure 
that  was  voluntary.  It  was  not  to  be  borne. 

But  why  was  it  not  to  be  borne? 

As  the  minutes  passed,  the  girl's  reasoned  endurance  and 
her  stubborn  will  reasserted  themselves,  not  for  the  first 
time.  It  was  folly  to  say  it  could  not  be  borne  when  she 
had  already  borne  it  more  or  less  knowingly  for  a  space  of 
years.  Did  the  mere  seeing  with  one's  eyes  of  something 
already  known,  make  unbearable  what  was  bearable  before? 
Where  was  her  courage?  Had  she  not  prepared  herself  for 
this  many  and  many  a  time?  Had  Louis  not  warned  her 
fairly?  Had  she  not  accepted  the  circumstances  in  which  such 
trials  of  love  were  to  be  looked  for?  Had  she  not  even 
desired  such  circumstances?  Yet  here  she  was  shaken  by 
the  first  trial. 

So  yet  again  did  Joanna  gather  up  all  the  deathly  courage 
that  was  hers,  and  recover  a  deathly  buoyancy.  Yet  again 
with  her  lover's  appeal  ringing  afresh  in  her  ears  did  she  draw 
herself  up  to  her  full  stature  of  proud  humility.  Let  the 
next  testing  come  when  and  how  it  might,  she  would  be  un- 
shaken. She  would  show  Louis  a  composed  and  cheerful  coun- 
tenance. Had  he  not  so  far  humbled  himself  as  to  ask  a 
favor  of  her?  So  long  as  he  could  do  that:  so  long  as  she 
was  his  angel,  his  friend  and  his  love,  was  there  anything  she 
could  not  endure? 

As  she  crossed  the  road  to  Chapel  Court  she  braced  herself 
to  look  calmly  upon  her  joyous  decoration  of  the  little  studio. 
She  would  take  down  the  gay,  unlighted  lanterns  and  put  them 
away  for  a  happier  occasion  without  repining;  would  divide 
among  the  children  the  fruits  and  dainties  she  had  provided 
for  a  love  feast;  and  having  herself  eaten  a  sober  meal,  she 
would  work  until  bed-time.  She  would  not  even  allow  her- 
self the  distraction  of  a  book. 

With  a  strong,  puritan  revulsion  of  disfavor  did  she  now 


OPENTHEDOOR  291 

look  back  upon  the  inebriation  of  her  afternoon.  Sobriety 
showed  as  the  condition  to  be  striven  for.  A  "  godly,  right- 
eous and  sober  life  "!  How  wonderful,  that  an  expression, 
until  now  quite  devoid  of  personal  significance,  should  spring 
up  suddenly  in  living,  most  desirable  beauty!  Hencefor- 
ward she  was  determined  to  withstand  that  inherited  ten- 
dency of  hers  to  barren  ecstasies. 

Greatly  restored  by  this  discovery,  Joanna  immediately 
quickened  her  pace.  It  was  as  if  no  time  must  be  lost  in 
putting  it  into  practice.  And  at  the  same  moment  that  her 
feet  stepped  to  a  livelier  measure,  came  a  thought  which 
caused  a  broad,  amused  smile  to  overspread  her  features. 
How  amazingly  ignorant,  thought  she,  were  those  persons 
that  would  condemn  her  relations  with  Louis  on  grounds  of 
laxity  or  self-indulgence!  What  other  situation  between 
man  and  woman  could  demand  so  constant  a  self-discipline, 
such  sacrifice,  such  effort,  such  a  putting  aside  of  all  slackness 
and  sloth?  Assuredly  the  reality  was  very  different  from 
anything  she  herself,  standing  by  the  little  garden  door  of 
La  Porziuncola  had  imagined.  Yet  she  was  glad  it  was 
different;  glad  to  have  it  so;  glad  of  love's  hardness. 

No  longer  smiling,  but  grave  and  resolute,  she  was  about  to 
pass  under  the  archway  when  Edwin  Moon  came  out  of  the 
shop  and  made  to  speak  to  her.  In  a  frock-coat  and  top- 
hat,  he  seemed  smaller  and  more  bent  than  usual.  He  was 
carrying  his  black  attache-case. 

"  A  lovely  evening,  isn't  it?  "  he  asked,  looking  submis- 
sively at  the  heavens.  He  had  stopped,  so  Joanna  was  com- 
pelled to  stop  also.  Clearly  there  was  something  further  in 
his  mind  to  say  to  her. 

A  little  embarrassed,  but  patient  with  him  by  experience, 
Joanna  waited.  From  the  first  she  had  felt  a  liking  for  the 
little,  vague  man  with  his  shabby  gait  and  his  oddly  dispas- 
sionate face.  And  lately  her  liking  had  developed  into  a  kind 
of  championship.  She  could  not  get  out  of  her  mind  the  sound 
of  Trissie  Moon's  voice  as  she  had  heard  it  (overheard  it 
rather)  late  one  night  in  the  summer.  It  had  wakened  her, 
that  voice  of  Trissie's  floating  in  at  the  widely  opened  window 
of  her  bedroom  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  flowing  tap  in 
the  yard  below,  where  husband  and  wife  were  together  en- 
gaged upon  a  midnight  cleansing  of  the  kitchen. 

"  The  longer  I  live  with  you  the  more  you  drive  me  mad!  " 


292  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

This  was  the  only  complete  phrase  which  had  emerged  clear- 
ly from  the  low,  stinging  tirade,  pertinacious  as  the  water 
that  beat  steadily  upon  the  stones  of  the  yard.  Twice  only 
could  the  involuntary  listener  detect  the  man's  meek  murmur 
in  protest  or  self-defence.  But  the  pushing,  contumelious 
voice  of  the  woman  had  gone  on  till  it  was  checked  by  its  own 
hoarseness.  Then  only  it  had  faltered.  Then  only,  after 
reviving  time  and  again,  but  ever  with  lessening  strength' 
had  it  fallen  into  a  derisive  implacable  silence. 

Since  that  night  Joanna  had  sided  in  secret  with  the  hus 
band.  And  this  though  it  was  the  wife  who  went  constantly 
out  of  her  way  to  be  helpful.  Especially  in  the  matter  of 
arranging  Joanna's  rooms  Trissie  Moon  had  spared  no  pains. 
Joanna  indeed  had  never  known  anyone  to  compare  with  her 
in  all  that  concerned  a  house.  Her  taste  was  wonderfully 
sure — it  did  not  surprise  her  lodger  to  learn  one  day  by  chance 
that  she  had  been  a  promising  art  student  before  her  marriage 
— and  her  practical  knowledge  never  failed.  But  gratitude 
and  admiration  notwithstanding,  Joanna  had  acquired  the 
habit  of  avoiding  her  presence  when  she  could.  It  was  not 
that  she  disliked  Trissie.  She  had  to  admit  a  real,  even 
a  painful  liking  for  her.  But  it  had  come  as  a  relief,  when  a 
month  ago,  Trissie,  declaring  herself  sick  to  death  of  household 
drudgery,  and  giving  as  an  excuse  that  she  must  find  extra 
money  for  Roddy's  massage,  had  rushed  into  the  manage- 
ment of  a  local  laundry  which  was  changing  hands.  Since 
then  even  the  growing  discomfort  of  the  Moon  household, 
under  the  neglect  of  its  mistress  and  the  efforts  of  spasmodic 
charwomen,  seemed  preferable  to  Trissie's  strained  smile  and 
unceasing  stream  of  talk. 

But  Mr.  Moon  was  still  speaking  with  diffident  persistence, 
and  as  his  manner  was,  circuitously  approaching  his  point. 

"I  always  say,"  he   told  Joanna  mildly,  "that  the  pet 

days  of  the  year  come  in  November  and  in  March the  very 

late  autumn,  the  very  early  spring. There's  a  something  in 

the  air  then— jocund?— fecund?— which  is  it?  So  I  find 
at  least.  But  I  rarely  get  anyone  to  agree  with  me.  People 
say  they  feel  ill  in  March  and  melancholy  in  November. 
I  remember  when  we  lived  in  Hampshire,  we  used  to  ride  in 
the  forest  in  November.  There  was  nothing  melancholy  about 

that. 1  had  a  strawberry  mare  equally  good  to  ride  or  drive 

she  was  called  Bathsheba  after  one  of  Hardy's  heroines 


OPENTHEDOOR  293 

~_* — that  of  course  is  the  Hardy  country for  a  time  he  was 

one  of  my "  Edwin  Moon's  voice  trailed  off,  and  his 

pale,  blue,  ambiguous  gaze  travelled  into  space. 

His  companion  was  eager  in  expressing  her  entire  agree- 
ment with  regard  to  the  pet  days  of  the  year.  But  this  being 
decided  between  them,  she  was  still  waiting  for  what  he  really 
wanted  to  say. 

"  Is  it  an  embalming  this  evening?  "  Seeking  for  some 
chat  to  fill  in  the  silence,  Joanna  pointed  to  the  attache-case 
in  which  she  knew  he  carried  his  instruments.  She  had  now 
known  for  some  time  in  which  capacities  her  landlord  was 
engaged  by  the  undertaker  downstairs,  and  that  he  was  no 
more  than  an  ill-paid,  if  also  indispensable,  hireling  in  that 
profitable  business.  She  also  knew  that  as  a  rule  he  did  not 
wear  his  top-hat  if  he  had  no  more  to  do  than  to  measure  the 
client's  body. 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  brightening.  "But  not  for  us:  for 
Maple's.  Maples  are  sending  a  gentleman  back  to  South 
Africa  at  the  end  of  the  week.  And  when  the  Equator  has 
to  be  dealt  with,  they  can  trust  no  one  in  town  with  the  job 
but  myself.  Most  of  the  trade,  as  I  daresay  you  know,  is 
with  the  United  States.  And  there  are  quite  half  a  dozen 
embalmers  in  London  who  can  deal  safely  as  far  as  New  York, 
and  might  even  guarantee  the  overland  journey  to  the  West 
Coast.  But  the  Equator— that's  the  real  test." 

Though  he  was  a  broken  man  and  knew  it,  Mr.  Moon  could 
not  keep  the  light  of  professional  arrogance  from  dwelling  at 
this  moment  in  his  eyes. 

What  had  gone  to  the  breaking  of  him,  and  by  what  slow 
or  swift  stages  he  had  declined  to  his  present  way  of  life, 
Joanna  did  not  know.  Unwillingly — well  nigh  under  pro- 
test— she  had  gathered  from  Trissie's  wild  talk  that  once 
they  had  had  money  and  professional  standing  (It  looked  as 
if  Edwin  had  been  a  country  doctor  with  means);  that  there 
had  come  a  catastrophe  involving  disgrace;  that  after  an 
interval  of  some  dark  nature,  they  had  gone  to  live  in  America 
where  Roddy  had  been  born.  But  she  had  always  shrunk 
from  gratifying  her  own  natural  curiosity  by  means  of  poor 
Trissie's  incontinence,  and  had  pried  no  farther  than  she 
could  help  into  the  undoubted  mystery  that  surrounded  the 
pair. 

"  What  I  wanted  to  ask  you — Trissie  is  sure  to  be  late  home 


294  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

again  to-night — I  wonder,  would  you  be  so  very  kind? — if 

it  wouldn't  really  be  troubling  you  too  much ?  "  At  last 

Mr.  Moon  was  getting  to  the  pith  of  his  request. 

"  You  want  me  to  keep  an  eye  on  the  children?  "  exclaimed 
Joanna,  grasping  his  meaning  with  considerable  relief.  "  Of 
course  I  will!  " 

"  It  is  kind  of  you  to  offer:  very  kind,"  he  breathed,  peering 
at  her  gratefully.  "  After  that  Swedish  woman's  pummelling 
to-day,  Roddy  ought  to  get  to  bed  early.  I'd  see  to  it  myself 
if  it  weren't  for  this."  And  he  disparagingly  indicated  the 
attache-case. 

"  I'll  bath  him  and  give  him  his  supper  the  minute  I  get 
in,"  promised  Joanna  with  ready  energy.  "  Is  Ollie  with  us 
to-night?  "  she  asked  as  she  moved  off. 

"  I'm  afraid  she  is.  Yes.  Mrs.  Garland  has  a  theatre,  and 
asked  us  if  we  could  keep  Ollie  late,"  admitted  Mr.  Moon. 
"  It's  unfortunate.  Do  you  think  you  can  manage  both? 
It  seems  too  bad  to  ask  it  of  you." 

"  You  know  I  enjoy  it,"  Joanna  assured  him  smiling.  It 
was  not  the  first  time,  nor  yet  the  tenth  that  similar  requests 
had  been  made  and  similar  apologies  offered.  True,  it  had 
generally  been  Trissie  who  had  asked  her  lodger's  help  in 
various  ways  with  the  children  (with  the  exception  of  Edvina's 
washing  and  bedding  which  was  performed  at  five  o'clock 
each  day  by  a  trained  nurse  who  came  for  that  purpose  only) ; 
but  Mr.  Moon  must  have  known  of  it. 

Upon  entering  the  house,  Joanna  stepped  upon  several 
letters  which  lay  dimly  white  upon  the  linoleum  just  within 
the  front  door  where  they  had  fallen  from  the  postman's  hand. 
By  the  light  from  a  lamp  in  the  court  outside  she  could  barely 
decipher  their  directions.  Only  one  was  for  herself — a  bulky 
one  in  her  mother's  unmistakable  hand-writing  Urgent  was 
marked  clearly  upon  the  left  hand  top  corner  of  the  envelope. 

But  in  this  there  was  nothing  disturbing.  For  as  Juley  had 
a  strong  sense  of  human  frailty  which  made  no  exception  of 
the  postal  service,  her  correspondents  were  well  accustomed 
to  find  either  of  the  words  Urgent  or  Immediate,  and  frequently 
the  word  Private  as  well,  upon  the  outside  of  her  communi- 
cations. 

Joanna  thought  she  would  read  this  letter  in  her  bedroom 
where  she  had  been  going  to  take  off  her  coat  and  hat  before 
joining  the  children.  But  having  already  laid  her  hand  on 


OPENTHEDOOR  295 

the  knob  of  the  door  leading  to  her  separate  staircase,  she 
involuntarily  paused  to  listen. 

It  was  not  usually  so  quiet  as  this  in  the  house  when  Ollie 
was  there.  Though  Ollie  and  Roddy  seldom  shared  their  games 
they  were  decidedly  vocal  in  company.  And  if  both  voices 
were  not  to  be  heard  placidly  pursuing  independent  mono- 
logues, Ollie's  at  least  would  be  lifted,  loud  and  utterly 
absorbed,  in  unending  song. 

But  on  this  evening  not  a  sound  came  from  upstairs.  And 
Joanna,  wondering  and  suddenly  anxious,  pushed  her  un- 
opened letter  into  her  pocket  and  went  straight  up  through 
the  dim  little  house  to  the  Moon's  sitting-room. 

The  moment  she  had  opened  the  door,  the  queer  silence  was 
explained. 

The  walls  of  the  lamp-lighted  room,  the  mantel-piece,  the 
furniture,  even  Edvina's  empty  carriage,  were  stuck  all  over 
with  oddly  shaped  bits  of  paper.  Roddy  on  the  floor  was 
laboriously  writing  with  the  very  wet  stump  of  a  pencil  upon 
similar  bits  of  paper.  His  cheeks  were  bright  scarlet  with 
the  efforts  he  was  making  and  the  excitement  of  what  was 
already  achieved.  Ollie,  plump-legged;  round-faced  and  short- 
haired,  stood  on  tip-toe  before  the  glazed  book-case,  and  was 
busy  plastering  Roddy's  work  as  high  as  ever  she  could  reach 
upon  the  panes,  having  first  wetted  each  printed  or  illustrated 
scrap  wth  her  tongue. 

Both  children  looked  round  at  the  intruder  with  delighted 
but  somewhat  anxious  eyes.  Ollie  particularly  was  on  tender- 
hooks,  and  the  corners  of  her  smiling  lips  were  ready  to  drop 
at  a  word. 

"  Why,  whatever  have  you  been  up  to,  you  two?  "  Joanna 
exclaimed.  And  she  examined  more  closely  into  the  children's 
handiwork. 

"  Such  a  lovely  game,  being  dead!  "  declared  Roddy's 
matter-of-fact  voice.  But  Ollie  hovered  in  uncertainty.  She 
was  wavering  now  on  the  brink  of  dismay,  and  did  not  take 
her  bright,  misgiving  eyes  off  Joanna's  face. 

What  they  had  got  hold  of,  as  Joanna  now  saw,  was  one 
of  the  monumental  mason's  catalogues  from  the  office  down- 
stairs. All  the  slips  of  paper  were  tombstones.  There  were 
plain  marble  crosses  and  wormy  Celtic  ones;  there  were 
broken  pillars,  massive  sarcophagi,  slabs  and  kerbs;  there 
were  mourning  angels,  shattered  vases  and  draped  urns.  The 


296  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

children  had  cut  them  out,  growing  less  and  less  neat  as  they 
had  progressed  helter-skelter  through  the  catalogue,  and  had 
filled  each  in  with  a  name  they  knew. 

Joanna  studied  one  tombstone  after  another. 

RODDY  DIED,  she  read.  Then  EDVINA  DIED,  OLLIE 
DIED,  MOTHER  DIED,  FATHER  DIED.  (All  were  in 
Roddy's  bold  but  erratic  printing.  Ollie  being  a  backward 
scholar).  And  besides  what  she  took  to  be  an  attempt  at  her 
own  name— MISSES  REST  PONY  DIED,  stuck  by  the  side 
of  the  fireplace  upon  a  very  imposing  piece  of  scrollworked 
sculpture,  there  was  pinned  up  one  of  the  undertaker's  printed 
order  forms.  Here  Roddy,  unable  to  subdue  his  caligraphy 
to  the  spaces  left  blank  for  customers,  had  answered  several 
questions  at  once  with  a  single  YES  or  NO,  or  by  some  secret 
hieroglyph  of  his  own. 

Thus,  opposite — "  Measurement  of  Body," — he  had  put  X 

opposite—"  Shell  Cov'd  *| 

Lead  Coffin  [ — he  had 

Mahogany  Coffin  [put  Yes. 

Outside  Casket  "  J 


opposite — "  Is  Hand  Bier  required  of  us? 
Is  our  Hearse  to  go  through  by  rail? 
Are  Bearers  to  go  through  by  rail? 
Valuations  for  probate? 
Monumental  Masonry? 
Terms  of  payment?  " 


— he  had 
put  NO. 


And  wherever  he  had  felt  doubtful,  or  had  been  presented 
with  a  nice  large  space,  he  had  firmly  planted  his  own  name — 
RODDY.  .  .  RODDY.  .  .  RODDY. 

Joanna  shuddered.  She  told  herself  it  was  absurd  to  feel 
anything  but  amusement,  yet  she  could  not  help  that  shudder. 
For  the  very  reason  perhaps  that  she  could  well  enter  into 
the  children's  excitement  at  having  all  by  themselves  discovered 
so  novel  a  game,  she  was  quite  overcome;  and  for  a  few 
moments  she  dared  not  turn  round  from  her  inspection  of 
the  book-case,  lest  her  unreasoned  dread  should  be  com- 
municated to  Ollie  who  stood  just  behind  her.  Perfectly  she 
knew  how  Ollie  was  standing  there,  twisting  the  corner  of  her 
pinafore  between  her  fingers,  awaiting  the  verdict.  Roddy, 


OPEN   THE   DOOR  297 

she  need  not  trouble  about.  Roddy  was  shielded  impenetrably 
by  the  walls  of  the  citadel  in  which  he  dwelt  apart,  exempt. 
Nothing  from  the  outside  world  could  come  near  him,  much 
less  wound  him.  But  Ollie!  From  the  first  Joanna  had 
understood  in  little  Ollie  something  of  her  own  passionate 
wistfulness  of  desire  towards  the  world.  Ollie  wanted  the 
world.  And  she  wanted  it  perfect,  ever  so  perfect  in 
gaiety  and  loveliness.  So  Ollie  could  not  bear  one  hint  of 
reproach  or  unhappiness. 

At  last,  feeling  she  was  mistress  again  of  her  countenance, 
Joanna  turned,  and  immediately  she  had  to  meet  the  little 
girl's  look  of  apprehension. 

"  I  think  that's  rather  a  silly  game,"  she  said  with  studied 
lightness.  She  smiled  and  held  out  her  hand.  "  Let's  tidy 
the  room  all  up,  shall  we?  " 

But  Ollie  threw  back  her  head,  and  set  up  a  loud  and  bitter 
wailing. 

There  is  something  so  ultimate  in  the  despairing  crying  of 
certain  children  that  the  solid  ground  of  sufficiency  seems  to 
crumble  beneath  the  feet  of  those  that  hear  it.  To  all  laughter 
and  contentment  it  gives  the  lie:  upon  all  theories  of  childish 
happiness,  even  upon  the  very  possibility  of  any  well  founded 
happiness  upon  earth,  it  casts  a  deep  shadow  of  doubt.  It 
seems  to  recall  all  former  mirth  and  to  cancel  it,  or  to  show  at 
least  how  closely  the  tears  are  at  all  times  lying  beneath.  It 
seems  to  warn  the  hearer  that  in  future  joy  no  confidence  must 
be  placed. 

"  Ollie!  Darling  Ollie!  "  implored  Joanna  half  distraught. 
And  she  folded  the  little  shaken,  sobbing  figure  to  her  breast. 
She  had  dropped  to  the  floor  upon  her  knees  before  Ollie,  and 
there  she  rocked  her  backwards  and  forwards,  giving  and  taking 
all  the  solace  of  the  blood,  but  unable  to  console  the  spirit 
of  one  who,  like  herself,  could  hardly  endure  the  inevitable 
approach  of  dissolution.  The  tears  fell  from  her  own  eyes, 
and  all  the  sadness  of  the  afternoon,  itself  a  foretaste  of  death, 
welled  up  in  her  afresh.  Even  while  she  gained  ground  with 
the  child,  soothing  and  cheering  her  by  degrees,  her  own 
sadness  welled  up  and  overflowed. 

"  Come!  Dear,  darling,  pretty  Ollie!  My  pet!  My  sweet- 
heart! My  wee  lamb!  My  hen  of  gold!  "  she  besought. 
"  Let  us  make  Edvina's  supper.  You  shall  help.  You  shall 
stir  the  pan  for  me.  And  Roddy  and  you  can  both  have 


298  OPENTHEDOOR 

splashy  baths  to-night.  And  if  you  like  you  may  sleep  in  my 
bed  till  Mother  comes  for  you.  There!  And  I'll  read  you 
Beswarragel  again — the  whole  of  it,  though  it's  so  long. 
There!  " 

And  at  last,  after  much  coaxing  and  cuddling,  Ollie's  sobs 
subsided.  They  subsided  and  she  was  once  more  a  happy 
little  girl.  She  was  just  a  happy  little  girl  again,  saving  that 
every  now  and  then  she  gave  a  curious  reminiscent  gulp, 
saving  that  she  glanced  very  often  up  at  Joanna  with  eyes 
suspiciously  bright,  saving  that  when  she  laughed,  her  laughter 
sounded  perilously  gay  and  boisterous. 

It  took  Joanna  a  full  hour  and  a  half  to  finish  with  the 
children.  Both  in  their  different  ways  were  greatly  excited, 
and  she  had  cause  to  rue  some  of  her  desperate  promises, 
especially  that  one  of  the  splashy  bath  before  the  fire, 

Ollie  in  the  tub,  shaking  her  head  wildly  and  screwing  up 
her  eyes  under  a  wet  fallen  fringe  of  hair,  rocked  in  the  water 
and  beat  upon  it  unremittingly  with  her  palms,  until  such 
moment  as  Roddy,  standing  by  should  shout  the  magic  words 
"  Peace!  Be  still!  "  when  she  became  immediately  motionless. 
And  when  Roddy  was  in  the  bath  the  process  was  reversed. 
But  in  each  case  the  periods  of  storm  were  prolonged  out  of  all 
proportion  to  the  periods  of  calm,  and  Joanna  came  near  to 
losing  patience. 

"  You  know  what  Father  said,  Roddy,"  she  pleaded.  "  That 
on  the  night  after  your  massage  you  must  be  early  in  bed,  or 
it  won't  do  you  any  good.  You  know  it  is  making  your 
legs  bigger  and  stronger  already.  Don't  you  want  to  be  big 
and  strong?  " 

As  she  urged  him  she  was  thinking  how  like  the  Moons  it 
was  that  they  should  pinch  themselves,  as  they  undoubtedly 
were  doing — not  to  speak  of  Trissie's  working  herself  to 
threads  at  the  laundry — so  that  expensive  attention  should 
be  lavished  upon  Roddy's  delicate  limbs  while  they  allowed 
him  night  after  night  to  sit  up  till  all  hours,  and  gave  him 
his  supper  at  any  time  between  five  o'clock  and  eleven.  The 
wonder  was  that  the  child  should  show  any  benefit  from  this 
one-sided  treatment.  But  he  certainly  did;  and  now  with 
his  clothes  off  he  looked  much  like  any  other  rather  thin  little 
boy. 

"  I  like  my  massage,"  Roddy  was  remarking  meditatively 
in  response  to  Joanna's  rally.  u  Miss  Olssen's  fingers  are 
just  like  jewels  on  my  back."  But  this  observation,  charming 


OPENTHEDOOR  299 

as  it  was,  made  him  no  faster  in  his  deliberate  washing  of  his 
person.  And  Joanna  knew  by  experience  that  he  would  resent 
with  all  his  manhood  any  offer  of  hers  to  do  the  soaping  or 
sponging  for  him. 

At  last,  however,  she  had  got  both  the  small,  young  naked 
bodies  dried:  Roddy's  stringy  and  hard,  yet  so  helplessly 
tender:  Ollie's,  petal-soft,  yet  firm  as  a  stephanotis  bud.  And 
she  thought  how  defenceless,  how  touchingly  exposed  the  man- 
child  seemed  by  the  side  of  the  finished,  compact  budlikeness 
of  the  girl  baby. 

"  Tell  me  Ollie "  she  asked  while  she  brushed  the  child's 

damp,  short  hair  back  from  her  forehead — fine,  dead-straight 
hair  it  was,  cut  boyishly  indeed,  but  so  female  to  the  touch, 

so  different  from  Roddy's  mane.  " Tell  me,  would  you 

rather  be  a  girl  or  a  boy?  " 

"  I'd  rather  be  a  girl,"  laughed  Ollie  at  once,  but  quite 
inattentively.  She  was  trying  all  the  while  to  twitch  the 
jacket  of  Roddy's  pa  jama  suit  away  from  him  before  he  could 
struggle  into  it. 

"  Keep  still,  Ollie,  do!  Why  would  you  rather  be  a  girl?  " 
persisted  Joanna.  She  was  surprised  a  little  by  the  child's 
readiness,  and  therefore  doubtful  if  there  had  been  any  mean- 
ing behind  her  answer. 

This  time  Ollie  had  to  think  for  just  a  moment.  She  stood 
perfectly  still  under  the  brush. 

Then — "  Because  I  like  boys  best,"  she  gravely  replied. 

But  when  Joanna  could  not  help  smiling,  Ollie,  in  a  little 
panic  was  no  longer  sure  what  she  had  said,  or  whether  it 
was  right  or  wrong.  ^ 

She  looked  at  Joanna  sideways,  questioning. 

VI 

When  the  children  were  asleep,  the  bath  emptied,  all  remain- 
ing traces  of  tombstones  removed,  and  a  tea-tray  put  ready 
for  the  exhausted  Trissie's  arrival,  it  was  nearly  ten  o'clock. 
Only  now  did  Joanna  remember  her  mother's  letter.  She 
opened  it  at  once. 

"  MY  BELOVED  CHILD  (it  ran), — 

"  Much  has  happened  of  late  which  I  have  not  felt  able 
to  mention  in  my  ordinary  letters  to  you.  Mother  had  to 
meditate  and  pray  before  coming  to  such  an  important  deci- 
sion, and  in  her  great  solitude  she  had  none  to  help  her  but 


300  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

our  Heavenly  Father  who  is  ever  so  long-suffering  towards 
the  feeblest  of  his  children.  O!  my  own,  darling  daughter,  may 
you  never  fail  to  seek  that  Source  in  times  of  trial  when  the 
Evil  One  lieth  in  wait,  for  other  help  is  there  none.  You  will 
not  be  surprised  when  I  tell  you,  dear,  that  the  Matter  in  which 
I  have  been  seeking  Guidance,  is  whether  my  future  abode  is 
to  be  in  Glasgow  or  in  London.  You  remember  how  we  all 
talked  of  this  at  the  time  of  dear  Georgie's  wedding? 

"  When  you  left,  as  I  have  already  told  you  in  my  letters, 
Mabel  was  very  kind  and  attentive.  Indeed  I  knew  not  what 
I  should  have  done  without  her.  But  now  that  she  is  gone,  I 
feel  I  can  tell  you  without  seeming  ungrateful  that  she  was  far, 
far  from  being  one  of  my  own  precious  girls.  I  do  not  think 
she  intends  it,  but  Mabel  with  her  gift  of  sympathy  has  a 
way  of  making  me  say  things  of  my  nearest  and  dearest  which 
I  very  much  regret  afterwards. 

"  Not  long  after  Mabel  left  us,  I  saw  that  Linnet,  impatient 
and  restless,  would  really  be  better  living  by  himself,  at  least 
for  a  time.  Eva  Gedge,  whom  I  consulted,  did  not  agree  with 
me  in  this.  She  thought  it  my  Christian  duty  to  remain  with 
Linnet.  But  God  had  shown  me  otherwise,  as  He  did  when 
I  let  you  go,  dear,  to  London.  And  I  told  this  to  Eva,  at  the 
same  time  offering  myself  for  a  few  months'  trial,  as  her  co- 
worker  in  whatever  way  she  thought  best.  I  offered,  if  she 
liked,  to  take  over  Evening  Prayers  at  the  Training  College,  and 
to  have  special  Bible  Readings  (dealing  especially  with  pro- 
phecies of  the  Second  Coming)  for  the  students.  For  gifted 
as  Eva  is,  and  intellectually  far  above  my  reach — how  often, 
Joanna,  has  Mother  to  pray  against  envy  of  the  gifts  of  others! 
— I  could  not  but  see  that  there  was  a  conventionality,  even  a 
seeming  coldness  about  her  prayers  and  exposition  of  the  Holy 
Word.  In  all  prayerful  love  I  had  thought  this  to  show  that 
her  real  sphere  was  organization.  And  as  Eva  has  always 
tried  to  help  me  by  pointing  out  any  shortcomings  of  mine, 
I  ventured  with  none  but  the  most  sisterly  feelings  to  draw 
her  attention  to  what  I  am  sure  is  the  truth.  But  you  will 
hardly  believe  me  when  I  tell  you  how  completely  her  manner 
has  changed  towards  me  from  that  very  moment.  Christ's 
Kingdom  is  indeed  still  far  off  so  long  as  His  Chosen  ones  have 
so  little  of  His  spirit!  It  was  a  most  painful,  most  bitter 
experience,  and  has  made  any  further  idea  of  my  living  under 
her  roof  (even  if  she  were  willing)  quite  impossible. 


OPEN   THE    DOOR  301 

"  This  happened  about  three  weeks  ago,  but  wishing  to 
say  nothing  unjust  I  did  not  tell  you  of  it  at  once.  Now,  after 
much  wavering  I  think  I  see  my  way  clear.  As  soon  as 
suitable  rooms  can  be  got  for  Linnet  I  must  come  to  London. 
And  I  must  do  what  you  have  all  so  often  begged — I  now 
see  rightly — :  I  must  hand  over  all  the  housekeeping  to  you, 
if  you  still  feel  able  for  it,  and  confine  myself  to  certain  duties 
which  wll  lighten  your  responsibilities.  Your  frequent  affec- 
tionate letters,  and  Georgie's  have  been  a  great  strength  to 
me  in  some  dark  hours,  and  I  feel  a  growing  longing  to  be  with 
you  in  that  great  and  wonderful  city  where  so  much  is  being 
done  (do  I  not  read  of  it  continually  in  my  weekly  magazines?) 
to  hasten  the  Coming  of  His  Kingdom  which  is  all  my  prayer 
and  desire.  It  will  of  course  take  some  time  to  get  Linnet 
comfortably  settled  here.  But  we  shall  go  as  we  are  Led,  one 
step  at  a  time.  Meanwhile  it  might  be  as  well — don't  you 
think? — to  be  on  the  look-out  for  a  suitable,  quite  small 
house  in  the  neighborhood  of  Hampstead  Heath?  I  should 
wish,  of  course,  not  to  be  far  from  Georgie.  If  possible  Pd 
rather  not  have  a  flat,  never  having  fancied  one  (though 
I'm  told  the  London  people  prefer  them,  and  I  know  they 
are  very  different  from  our  Glasgow  closes).  You  need  not 
be  told  how  happy  Mother  is  with  a  bit  of  garden  to  tend.  But 
this  may  be  too  much  to  hope  for ?  " 

Joanna  read  this  long  letter — and  there  was  much  more  of 
it— through  to  the  end  with  a  loving  but  heavy  heart.  Though 
it  told  her  little  that  was  unexpected,  she  knew  now  how 
surely  she  had  come  to  count  upon  her  mother's  protracted 
unwillingness  to  leave  Glasgow.  The  loss  of  this  surety  was  a 
blow  at  her  freedom  and  her  new-found  happiness.  But  she 
felt  for  Juley,  and  she  was  not  free  from  self-reproach.  She 
tried  hard  to  persuade  herself  that,  given  entirely  new  condi- 
tions, she  and  her  mother  might  be  able  to  find  a  new  and 
happier  existence  under  the  same  roof. 

Anyhow  there  was  but  one  thing  to  be  done,  cost  what  it 
might  later.  She  wrote  a  welcoming,  affectionate  letter  home 
without  delay. 


CHAPTER  II 


BUT  nine  months  passed:  nine  months,  including  Christmas 
and  Easter  holidays  spent  as  usual  by  Joanna  in  Scot- 
land; and  Juley  seemed  no  nearer  to  the  carrying  out  of  her 
decision.  Whether  there  was  anything  in  the  various  prac- 
tical excuses  for  delay  periodically  alleged  by  Juley  in  further 
letters  and  talks;  whether  she  did  not  as  yet,  after  all,  feel 
perfectly  sure  of  Heavenly  guidance;  or  whether  she  was 
simply  not  equal  to  the  uprooting,  Joanna  did  not  know. 
At  intervals  she  continued  to  urge  her  mother's  coming,  but 
now  that  the  summer  holiday  was  again  at  hand,  and  nothing 
in  the  situation  changed,  she  had  begun  once  more  to  accept 
her  freedom  as  a  permanent  condition. 

Neither  had  Louis  afforded  her  any  further,  or  at  least  any 
definite  occasion  of  testing,  such  as  she  had  prepared  herself 
for  on  that  November  evening.  On  the  morning  after  his 
daughter-in-law's  unexpected  arrival  he  had  set  aside  all  family 
claims,  and  had  gone  with  Joanna  down  into  Surrey  for  a 
long  blissful  day's  walking.  They  had  climbed  up,  down,  and 
about  Leith  Hill,  and  had  discovered  a  solitary  inn,  with  a 
wide  triangular  common  to  itself.  And  Louis  had  been  at 
once  more  winning  and  more  serious  with  her  than  ever 
before.  Since  then,  she  had  perfectly  accommodated  herself — 
or  so  she  thought — to  the  inevitable  difficulties  of  their  situa- 
tion. She  had  anyhow  grown  used  to  them;  and  against 
them  in  the  balance  she  could  place  a  steady  progress  in  her 
work.  This  much  was  certain — under  the  combined  discipline 
and  excitement  of  her  life  her  technical  accomplishment  in- 
creased. 

It  was  a  brazen,  stifling  Sunday  afternoon  in  August,  the 
day  before  Bank  Holiday.  Louis  had  left  town  the  morning 
before.  Joanna  did  not  start  for  Glasgow  until  the  Tuesday 
morning.  As  usual,  with  London  bereft  of  her  lover,  she 
found  a  blankness  in  the  air.  Everything  seemed  empty  and 
echoing.  But  it  was  not  wholly  unpleasant.  She  liked  to 

302 


OPENTHEDOOR  303 

miss  him.  They  had  parted  firmly,  almost  happily.  Her 
mind  was  already  set  forward  upon  her  holiday,  badly  needed, 
and  beyond  her  holiday  upon  the  next  coming  together. 
Moreover,  without  any  doubt  there  was  a  sense  of  relief  in 
the  knowledge  that  she  was  free,  to  herself  alone,  for  that 
day  and  the  next:  that  she  could  come  and  go  from  the  house 
without  any  fear  of  missing  some  call  or  telephone  message 
from  Louis.  While  he  was  in  town,  it  was  a  fear  that  never 
quite  left  her. 

In  spirit  therefore,  Joanna  inhabited  a  kind  of  limbo  to 
which  she  had  long  since  become  accustomed  on  these  thresh- 
olds of  holiday.  But  in  the  flesh,  this  afternoon  at  three 
o'clock,  she  sat  with  the  Moons  on  their  roof-garden. 

At  the  moment,  her  head  on  one  side,  and  only  the  absorbed 
curve  of  her  lips  showing  beneath  the  drooping  brim  of  her 
hat,  she  was  making  a  birthday  present  for  Ollie  Garland. 
Some  days  before,  she  had  black-lacquered  a  small  wooden 
work-box,  and  now  that  the  surface  had  hardened,  she  was 
painting  a  bright,  impossible  bird  on  the  lid  and  little  gay- 
colored  flowers  on  the  sides. 

"  I  do  hope  Ollie  will  like  it!  "  she  exclaimed  happily,  not 
speaking  to  anyone  in  particular. 

"  What  sort  of  a  bird  is  it  supposed  to  be?  "  asked  Trissie 
Moon,  lifting  her  heated  face  and  pushing  back  a  fallen  loop 
of  her  hair  with  her  forearm.  In  the  other  earthy  hand  she 
clutched  a  trowel,  and  had  been  working  this  last  hour  at  her 
nasturtiums  with  penal  energy. 

When  Trissie  was  gardening  one  had  to  wonder  what  it 
was  that  she  was  so  fiercely  punishing  in  herself,  or  for  what 
it  was  in  another  that  she  thus  made  expiation.  Or  was  it 
merely  some  spite  against  life  which  she  was  confusedly  wreak- 
ing upon  the  earth?  Her  eyes,  with  the  bruised  shadows 
beneath  them,  were  burning.  Her  pallid  forehead  glistened 
with  sweat.  Her  mouth  was  set  in  lines  of  pain. 

She  was  the  only  one  on  the  roof-garden  not  at  peace.  Mr. 
Moon  sat  reading  on  a  canvas  chair.  Edvina  was  asleep  in 
her  carriage,  with  a  dark  parasol  stuck  through  the  wicker- 
work  to  keep  the  glare  of  the  sky  from  her  upturned  face. 
And  Roddy,  squatting  on  the  leads,  was  placidly  involved  in 
a  net- work  of  railway  lines. 

Joanna  gave  a  little  laugh  in  reply  to  Trissie's  peremptory 
demand. 


304  OPEN    THE    DOOR 

"  I'm  not  sure,"  she  admitted.  "  I'm  making  it  up  as  I 
go.  I  thought  a  phoenix  perhaps?  " 

Edwin  Moon  looked  over  his  spectacles  and  his  British 
Medical  Journal  at  the  box  in  question. 

"  I  don't  think  it's  a  phoenix.  No,"  he  observed  unemphati- 
cally.  And  in  the  colorless  tone  of  your  true  scholar,  he 
proceeded  to  describe  that  mythological  bird. 

Joanna  gave  him  an  interested  glance.  Rarely  would  her 
landlord  himself  initiate  any  learned  conversation.  But 
while  others  talked  loosely  of  this  or  that,  it  was  astonishing 
how  often  apt  or  curious  information  was  furnished  in  his  mild 
voice. 

"  What  about  a  bird  of  paradise,  then?  "  asked  Joanna. 
"  I  think  I'd  like  it  to  be  a  bird  of  paradise." 

Mr.  Moon  seemed  to  give  this  his  approval. 

"  And  the  less  like  the  real  thing  the  better,"  he  suggested 
with  the  ghost  of  a  twinkle  in  his  quenched  blue  eyes. 

"  You  know  of  course,"  he  went  on,  "  that  there  is  a  legen- 
dary bird  of  paradise  as  well  as  the  one  they  kill  for  women's 
hats?  Give  little  Ollie  the  myth." 

But  Joanna  knew  nothing  of  the  legend. 

"Yes,"  Mr.  Moon  told  her,  as  he  picked  up  his  Journal 
again.  "  According  to  the  old  zoologists  this  kind  of  bird 
was  irresistibly  attracted  by  the  nutmegs  strewn  on  the  floors 
of  certain  island  forests.  And  it  came  down  in  flocks  and 
devoured  the  spice  till  it  was  drunk.  While  it  was  drunk 
its  legs  were  eaten  off  by  ants.  So  that  afterwards  it  had  to 
live  always  in  the  air.  Having  no  legs  it  couldn't  alight  even 
to  sleep,  and  was  seen  continually  on  the  wing.  Hence — 
bird  of  paradise." 

Joanna  had  stopped  her  painting  to  listen. 

"What  a  sad  bird!  "  she  exclaimed.  "I  shan't  tell  Ollie 
that  story."  But  to  her  own  secret  heart  she  added,  "  That 
bird  is  like  me!  " 

With  her  fine,  sable-hair  brush  she  put  a  scarlet  feather — a 
high,  delicate  loop  of  scarlet — into  her  bird's  tail.  Then  she 
put  a  sheer  sweeping  blue  one.  Then  one  that  cascaded  pure, 
lemon  yellow.  And  she  held  the  box  away,  drawing  back 
her  head  the  better  to  appreciate  her  work.  How  well  these 
clear  colors  were  shrilled  out  upon  the  black!  She  had 
never  succeeded  with  lacquer  half  so  well  before. 

"  Now  I  have  the  trick,"  she  declared,  "  I'd  love  to  do  your 


OPENTHEDOOR  305 

tray  for  you,  Trissie;  and  that  old  pencil-case  of  Roddy's. 
I  feel  I  could  paint  every  bit  of  wood  in  the  house." 

A  gentle  consciousness  of  pleasure  came  to  her  there  on  the 
roof-garden,  and  she  loved  her  quiet  companions.  These 
Moons  were  her  friends!  What  other  friends  had  she  made  in 
London  these  fourteen  months?  In  Georgie's  world  she  was 
not  at  home;  she  was  joyless  in  Irene's;  and  despite  common 
interests  she  had  made  no  intimates  in  the  Chelsea  studios. 
In  all  these  quarters  she  had  persevered  chiefly  because  she 
was  afraid,  because  she  dared  not  lose  superficial  touch  with 
her  fellows,  because  she  feared  that  the  strangeness  of  her  life 
might  react  in  some  monstrous  external  strangeness.  But 
here  with  the  Moons  she  was  able  to  feel  simply  human,  free 
and  at  her  ease.  She  believed  that  both  Trissie  and  Edwin 
had  long  ago  guessed  her  secret,  and  that  they  understood. 
They  were  themselves  sorrowful,  outcast  people,  and  therefore 
must  surely  be  kind. 

Joanna's  meditation  was  interrupted  at  this  point  by  an 
exclamation  of  annoyance  which  came  from  Trissie.  For 
some  time  past,  neglecting  her  gardening  she  had  been  peering 
through  the  trellis,  apparently  observing  with  apprehension 
the  uncertain  movements  of  a  stranger  in  the  court  below. 

"  It  is  a  visitor  for  us,"  she  announced  in  despair.  And  as 
she  spoke  the  knocker  sounded  upon  the  front  door.  "  Who 
can  it  be?  You  must  go,  Edwin.  My  hands  aren't  fit  to 
be  seen.  It's  probably  some  one  for  you." 

"  I  don't  expect  anyone,  anyhow,"  said  Joanna  peacefully, 
and  filling  her  brush  with  bright  orange  pigment,  she  proceeded 
to  block  in  a  nasturtium  upon  a  blank  side  of  Ollie's  box. 

Mr.  Moon,  having  gone  obediently  downstairs,  returned  the 
next  minute,  "  Some  one  to  see  Mrs.  Rasponi,"  he  informed 
them.  "  I've  taken  him  up."  And  he  sat  down  again  to 
his  reading. 

As  Joanna  in  a  little  confusion  laid  aside  her  paints,  mur- 
muring the  while  that  she  wondered  who  on  earth  it  could 
me,  a  gleam  of  pure  malice  flashed  from  Trissie's  eyes. 

"  It  isn't  Mr.  Fender,"  she  volunteered  in  a  low,  acrimonious 
voice.  And  she  dug  her  trowel  passionately  into  a  tub  of 
fresh  mold.  "  It's  a  young  man  .  .  .  dark  .  .  .  seemed  not 
to  know  his  way." 

Like  a  fury  she  began  tying  up  the  long,  helpless  trails  of 
her  creepers  with  pieces  of  bast,  tweaked  viciously  from  a 


306  OPEN   THE    DOOR 

sheaf  which  she  was  holding  between  her  compressed  lips. 
But  Joanna  was  too  much  absorbed  in  her  own  speculations 
to  be  more  than  dimly  aware  of  the  other  woman's  malevo- 
lence. And  she  passed  unscathed  into  the  house. 


n 

As  she  entered  the  archway  room,  her  visitor — it  was  Law- 
rence Urquhart — turned  quickly  from  the  window  to  meet  her. 
He  looked  more  self-possessed  than  she  remembered  him,  and 
so  well,  that  when  they  had  shaken  hands,  for  want  of  any 
thing  better  to  say,  she  remarked  upon  it. 

He  admitted  that  he  was  quite  well.    How  was  she? 

Joanna  was  quite  well  too.  But  as  she  assured  him  of  this, 
she  did  not  meet  his  eyes;  and  when  he  admired  her  room, 
she  set  rather  hastily  about  displaying  her  possessions.  That 
was  her  Italian  mirror:  these  her  mauve  and  gold  luster  tea- 
cups picked  up  at  Dorking:  here  was  her  Empire  coffee-pot, — 
wasn't  it  a  beauty? — and  there  by  the  window  was  the  brass- 
clamped  sea-chest  she  had  got  for  a  few  shillings  one  wet 
day  in  an  open-air  market. 

It  was  their  first  meeting  since  the  last  unhappy  ride  to- 
gether more  than  a  year  ago,  but  in  the  interval  Joanna  had 
once  accidentally  had  a  glimpse  of  Lawrence  unknown  to 
him.  It  had  been  on  a  night  when  she  was  leaving  a  theater 
with  Louis.  Lawrence  with  a  friend — another  young  man — 
had  been  in  the  crowd,  and  the  unexpected  sight  of  his  uncon- 
scious face  had  affected  her  so  oddly  that  she  had  not 
pointed  him  out  to  Louis.  Why  was  it,  she  had  asked  herself, 
that  seeing  Lawrence's  features  anew,  after  absence,  was  like 
being  confronted  suddenly  by  some  vital  memory  of  childhood? 
He  was  only  an  acquaintance  of  her  adult  years.  Why  then 
should  his  eyes  recall  so  strongly  the  very  look  of  the  pools 
in  the  burn  at  Duntarvie?  " 

But  Lawrence  was  not  yet  living  in  London.  He  told  her 
this  as  if  it  were  the  apology  for  his  visit.  He  was  here  only 
for  the  Bank  Holiday  to  make  quite  sure  of  a  certain  berth  in 
Fleet  Street.  .  .  .  Yes,  he  was  leaving  Oxford  ...  No  more 
work  for  him  there  after  September.  .  .  .  And  Joanna  must 
know  what  a  sad,  untidy,  waste-papery  sort  of  place  London 
was,  of  a  Sunday  afternoon.  He  agreed  with  her  that  Glas- 
gow was  fifty  times  worse  in  the  same  circumstances.  Still 


OPEN   THE   DOOR  307 

one  felt  even  more  left  to  oneself  in  London.  At  least  he 
did.  So  he  had  taken  a  walk  through  the  Green  Park;  and 
being  then  so  near,  had  thought  to  look  her  up — Carl  had  given 
him  the  address — but  he  had  hardly  expected  to  find  her  in 
town. 

He  told  her  that  outside  this  two  days'  run  to  London,  he 
was  not  having  a  holiday  this  year. 

She  had  begun  to  pour  tea  from  the  Empire  coffee-pot  into 
one  of  the  mauve  and  gilt  cups,  but  now  she  paused  with  ques- 
tioning eyes  upon  him.  All  the  time  she  had  been  wondering 
obscurely  wherein  he  was  changed.  It  seemed  that  Oxford 
had  done  for  him  what  she  believed  London  had  done  for 
her.  How  had  it  come  about  in  his  case? 

"  You  look  to  me  as  if  you  had  just  returned  from  a  holi- 
day," she  said  with  just  a  thread  of  vexation  in  her  voice. 
"  I  never  saw  you  look  better."  And  she  went  on  with  her 
tea-making. 

"  It's  more  than  I  can  say  of  you,"  he  replied  quietly. 

Taken  off  her  guard,  Joanna  looked  up  quickly  and  had  to 
meet  his  scrutiny.  To  her  dismay  she  felt  the  blood  rise  hot 
in  her  face. 

"  I  expect  I  need  my  holiday,"  she  said,  handing  the  cup 
to  him  less  deftly  than  was  her  wont.  He  had  moved  from 
his  seat  to  take  it,  and  now  stood  close  by  her,  looking  down 
at  her. 

"  But  you  needn't  be  so  disagreeable  about  it,"  she  added 
harshly,  fighting  him  off. 

Though  she  was  glad  then  to  see  him  turn  away  in  distress, 
it  was  she  that  presently  harked  back  to  the  subject. 

"  What  makes  you  say  I  look  such  a  fright?  "  she  could 
not  resist  questioning  him. 

Lawrence  protested  that  he  had  said  no  such  thing. 

"  It  sounded  like  that." 

"  No.  You  look  ..."  The  young  man  frowned  and 
hesitated.  But  now  Joam  a  had  seen  from  his  eyes  that  he 
found  her  beautiful. 

"  Yes?     Go  on,"  she  insisted. 

"  Last  night  at  the  Coliseum,  I  saw  a  juggler,"  he  began. 
"  He  was  keeping  a  dozen  plates  in  the  air  at  once.  But  it  was 
his  face  I  watched.  He  wasn't  exactly  anxious.  He  knew  his 
job  brilliantly.  Still  it  was  taking  him  all  his  time  and  every 
ounce  of  his  strength  to  do  it  and  keep  a  calm  front." 


.3o8  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

Joanna  waited.    But  it  seemed  that  Lawrence  was  finished. 

"  And  I  look  like  him?  "  she  asked,  keeping  tight  hold  of 
herself.  She  was  seething  with  anger. 

"  As  I  see  you,"  persisted  Lawrence  bravely. 

"  I'm  very  sorry!  "  She  sat  biting  her  lower  lip  which  would 
miserably  tremble.  Then  a  single  heavy  tear  slid  out  of  one 
eye  and  ran  with  surprising  momentum  down  her  cheek  and 
on  to  her  lap. 

She  kept  perfectly  still.  As  it  was  the  far-away  cheek  from 
Lawrence,  and  as  she  was  sitting  with  her  back  to  the  light, 
she  hoped  he  would  not  notice.  But  almost  immediately  a 
second  tear,  scalding  and  vexatious  pushed  itself  over  the  lower 
lid  of  the  other  eye. 

She  sprang  up  and  made  for  the  window. 

"  Why  .  .  .  are  you  ...  so  ...  horrid?  "  she  just  man- 
aged to  articulate.  And  then  all  in  one  gasping  breath,  .  .  . 
"  Can't  you  see  I'm  tired?  I've  been  over-working.  I  need 
a  holiday." 

If  now  she  expected  a  penitent,  prostrate  Lawrence,  she 
was  mistaken.  He  sat  stark  still  in  his  place  and  did  not  say 
a  word. 

She  recovered  all  the  more  quickly  for  his  immobility,  and 
turned  herself  about  again  with  a  face  suffused. 

"  I  wonder  .  .  ."  She  could  almost  smile  though  her 
voice  was  still  full  of  treacherous  quavers.  .  .  "  I  wonder  why 
I  always  behave  like  an  idiot  when  I'm  with  you?  " 

"  Because  I'm  an  idiot  myself,"  was  Lawrence's  sour  re- 
joinder. And  though  they  both  knew  better,  this  helped  to 
restore  their  calm. 

"  Listen  ..."  she  began  presently  as  she  helped  herself 
to  more  tea.  " .  .  .1  saw  you  in  the  theater  one  night.  And 

"  she  added  with  tremulous  mischief "  you  were  not 

by  yourself." 

To  her  gratification  Lawrence  looked  at  her  quite  startled. 

"  When  was  that  ?  " 

"  One  Saturday  night  in  summer." 

"  Let  me  see  now,"  he  considered  warily.    "  Which  theater?  " 

"  Daly's." 

"  Ah!  Daly's?  "  She  could  feel  him  hiding  his  relief.  He 
remembered  now.  He  had  come  up  with  a  man  .  .  .  Martin, 
his  name  was  ...  a  very  entertaining  fellow  .  .  .  not  unlike 
Carl  Nilsson  in  some  ways  ...  he  would  like  Joanna  to 


OPEN   THE   DOOR  309 

have  met  Martin.  And  what  had  she  thought  of  the  piece? 
Why  had  she  not  spoken  to  them?  he  asked. 

Joanna  explained  some  of  the  circumstances.  It  had  been, 
she  said,  in  the  vestibule  crush,  struggling  for  cabs  on  a  night 
suddenly  turned  to  rain  as  he  might  remember.  And  then 
something  forced  her  to  add — "  I  was  with  Louis  Fender!  " 

But  on  this  Lawrence  made  no  comment. 

Soon  they  spoke  of  other  things.  She  put  some  vague  ques- 
tions about  Oxford,  and  was  struck  by  his  detached  and 
critical  attitude.  Here  surely  was  another  sign  of  change  in 
him?  In  Glasgow  he  had  been  in  some  awe  of  the  very  name. 

"  I've  learned  one  thing  there,  anyhow,"  he  told  her.  "  I've 
learned  to  shudder  at  the  thought  of  what  I  should  have 
become  with  a  tolerably  successful  academic  career.  I  was 
shifted  out  of  that,  and  a  good  job  too!  " 

Though  he  did  not  actually  add  in  words — "  I  owe  it  to 
you," — Joanna  felt  herself  both  implicated  and  exonerated. 
She  asked  him  what  his  new  choice  was  to  be. 

"  Not  journalism  surely?  "  she  hazarded. 

Lawrence  replied — looking  at  her,  and  perceiving  a  certain 
repugnance  in  her  face — that  journalism  it  was,  for  the  time 
at  least.  He  had  got  a  newspaper  job  of  sorts — jumped  at 
it  indeed — because  that  would  bring  him  to  London,  and 
because  he  could  go  on  reading  for  the  Bar  at  the  same  time. 
What  it  was  all  to  come  to,  he  himself  did  not  yet  know.  He 
only  knew  that  he  wanted  to  be  "  in  the  stream  of  things." 

"  And  professors  aren't?  "  asked  Joanna. 

"  Not  in  the  way  I  mean,"  he  replied.  "  They  are  all 
fenced  in  and  sheltered.  A  few  of  them  keep  up  the  pretence 
that  this  isn't  so.  But  it  is.  It  has  got  to  be." 

So  they  talked  on  for  a  while,  sticking  cautiously  to  general- 
ities, till  Lawrence  sprang  up,  as  if  he  had  quite  suddenly 
recollected  an  engagement  elsewhere.  As  he  said  good-bye 
he  asked  Joanna  if  she  would  go  with  him  next  day  for  a 
glimpse  of  Hampstead  Heath.  He  had  always  wanted  to  see 
it  on  a  Bank  Holiday. 

After  a  moment's  hesitation  she  agreed.  She  always  hated 
the  blank  day  before  a  journey  and  Louis  was  out  of  town. 
"  We  might  have  another  ride  together,  this  time  on  wooden 
steeds,"  suggested  Lawrence. 


3io  OPEN   THE    DOOR 


m 

But  the  walk  on  Monday  was  no  pleasure  to  Joanna. 
Though  she  had  been  well  disposed  toward  Lawrence  at  part- 
ing and  in  her  after- thoughts  of  him  the  next  meeting  found  her 
weary  and  hostile.  She  would  like  to  have  shut  her  ears  to 
whatever  he  said,  and  the  blaring,  glaring,  untidy  Heath  had 
none  of  the  charm  she  had  found  there  at  the  Whitsuntide 
holiday  when  Louis  had  been  her  companion.  The  vile, 
raucous  voices  were  an  affront,  and  the  ugly  laughter.  She 
loathed  the  reeking  faces  and  the  horse-play.  She  refused 
after  all  to  ride  on  the  merry-go-round,  refused  to  have  tea 
anywhere  but  at  home.  It  was  all  hateful  to  her. 

Some  relief  came  with  the  escape  back  to  her  rooms,  though 
Chapel  Court  itself  was  noisy  enough.  She  had  thought  to 
shake  Lawrence  off  at  the  street  door  and  go  up  alone.  Surely 
he  must  feel  as  she  did,  what  a  failure  the  afternoon  had  been? 
Then  why  had  he  not  the  sense  to  leave  her?  But  no!  He 
stuck  like  a  burr,  and  seemed  oblivious  to  the  languor  of  her 
invitation. 

Still  things  were  better  in  the  quiet  interior,  and  there  would 
be  some  comfort  in  tea  sipped  behind  the  closed  shutters.  Here 
over  the  archway  one  was  safe.  And  the  cool,  untouched 
breeze  crept  in  at  the  sides  of  the  curtains. 

Leaving  Lawrence  on  their  entrance,  Joanna  ran  to  her 
bedroom  and  threw  off  her  hot  and  dusty  outer  clothes.  Her 
thin  dresses  were  already  packed,  so  she  had  nothing  to  put 
on  saving  one  of  the  holland  smocks  she  wore  for  working. 
But  no  garment  she  had  was  more  becoming  to  her,  a  fact 
which  had  more  than  once  been  pointed  out  by  Louis.  Assur- 
edly in  the  cool,  pleated  linen,  when  she  had  laved  her  face, 
and  doubled  up  her  hair  anew,  she  felt  a  different  creature. 

The  young  man  gave  a  little  start  of  joy  as  she  came  into 
the  sitting-room.  But  his  only  spoken  comment  was  that  she 
looked  "  nice  and  cool." 

For  a  while  they  talked  of  the  heat.  Then — "  You  know 
what  I  said  yesterday  .  .  .?  "  questioned  Lawrence  abruptly. 
..."  that  about  having  no  more  use  for  the  back-waters?  " 

Yes.  Joanna  remembered. 

"  It  was  you  helped  me  to  it,"  he  said  quietly,  only  his 
breathing  playing  him  false."  ...  I  wanted  to  tell  you  that. 
You  helped  so  tremendously.  You  have  always  stood  for 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  3" 

the  real  world  which  I  would  have  hidden  from  if  I 
could." 

Joanna  wondered  in  all  honesty  how  this  could  be.  "  I've 
always  been  in  such  a  dream  myself,"  she  declared,  "...  till 
quite  lately." 

"  Perhaps  .  .  ."—he  winced  a  little "  .  .  .  I  don't 

know  about  lately.  But  that  first  evening  at  Mrs.  Lovatt's 
house  at  dinner.  You  seemed  a  different  person  from  the  one 
in  old  Cellibrini's  class.  You  had  got  away,  really  away  .  .  . 
didn't  belong  any  more  to  Glasgow.  You  hadn't  been  just 
travelling  or  sight-seeing  like  the  others.  How  I  admired 
the  way  you  had  escaped  ...  it  was  something  I  needed  so 
badly  and  had  so  little  courage  for.  Couldn't  we  start  being 
friends  from  now?  "  he  ended  abruptly. 

"We  might  ..."  she  allowed.     But  she  hesitated. 

"  You  seem  to  grudge  it,"  his  voice  was  sharp.  "  If  you 
knew  how  I  need  .  .  .  what  happiness  it  would  mean  to 
me.  ...  " 

"  That's  exactly  it,"  Joanna  interrupted  him  quickly.  "  I 
do  believe  we  might  be  friends  if  only  it  weren't  a  thing  you 
thought  you  needed  to  make  you  happy.  Don't  you  see?  " 

"  No.    I  don't  think  I  do  see."    He  was  taken  aback. 

"  I  mean,  surely  happiness  has  to  be  in  ourselves  if  it  is  to 
be  any  use  at  all?  I've  thought  such  a  lot  about  this  lately," 
said  she  with  growing  eagerness.  "  If  your  happiness  is  in 
the  hands  of  other  people,  or  of  any  circumstances  whatever, 
it  is  really  only  misery.  If  you  were  happy  in  yourself  now, 
it  would  be  all  right.  We  could  be  friends  and  get  pleasure 
out  of  it.  Otherwise  I  don't  see  the  good." 

Lawrence  pondered  this  resentfully.  There  was  too  much 
truth  in  what  Joanna  had  said  for  him  to  scout  it  on  the  in- 
stant. Had  he  not  all  his  life  gone  seeking  happiness  outside 
himself?  It  came  to  him  now  almost  with  the  force  of  a  dis- 
covery. And  yet  it  was  a  lie — what  a  lie  it  was! —  that 
this  woman  he  loved  now  so  plausibly  asked  him  to  share. 
He  himself  had  lied  when  he  had  said  her  friendship  would 
make  him  happy.  He  did  not  expect  happiness  from  it.  He 
needed  what  he  could  get  of  her.  That  was  all  ...  didn't 
even  want  it  ...  needed  it.  And  he  cared  not  what  he  had 
to  pay  for  it  in  wretchedness. 

And  just  because  he  needed  it,  she  wasn't  playing  fair.  No, 
she  wasn't.  But  he  would  have  to  share  her  lie.  For  he 


3r2  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

feared  above  all  things  to  lose  his  chance  of  seeing  her 
again. 

"  Then  if  I  come  to  see  you  when  I'm  settled  in  London,"  he 
managed  to  say,  with  a  peculiar  smile,  as  he  was  leaving,  "it 
will  be  because  I'm  happy  in  myself.  I  think  you  may  count 
on  seeing  me." 

All  the  evening  Joanna  was  alone.  Having  finished  her 
packing  she  started  putting  her  rooms  in  order. 

She  existed  submerged  beneath  the  incessant  holiday  clamor. 
The  revellers  were  returning  to  their  homes,  and  by  nine 
o'clock  the  trampling  and  shouting  in  the  street  had  become 
a  steady  torture.  The  only  respite  came  when  a  band  of  boys 
and  girls  passed  along  the  pavement  singing  the  music-hall 
song  of  the  moment.  They  sang  with  the  irreproachable 
ecstatic  rhythm  of  the  Cockney,  their  voices  twanging  out 
defiantly  in  -parts. 

Then  in  the  court  below,  a  piano-organ  struck  up,  and  people 
began  to  dance  in  front  of  the  Bird-in-Hand.  It  was  a  ta%king 
tune,  full  of  negro  syncopations;  and  Joanna  leaned  her  fore- 
head against  the  pane  of  her  back  window  and  looked  down 
at  the  dancers.  A  fat  girl  in  crushed  white  muslin,  with 
clumsy  feet,  wriggled  her  body  monotonously  to  the  music, 
and  there  was  a  fixed,  mesmeric  smile  on  her  gleaming  face. 
Opposite  to  her  a  decrepit  man  hopped  in  time,  while  a 
baby  clutched  one  of  his  knees,  and  granny,  careworn  and  fit 
to  drop,  rocked  back  and  forth  in  toothless  laughter  at  her 
old  man's  antics. 

"  In  the  stream  of  things!  "  Why  should  one  want  to  be 
in  the  stream  of  things?  questioned  Joanna  in  her  upper  dark- 
ness. Yet  is  was  true  that  it  was  terrible  to  be  shut  out 
in  undesired  solitude.  A  sudden  hatred  of  this  London,  so 
noisily  vacant  without  Louis,  this  London  with  its  choice  be- 
tween a  festering  stream  of  things,  and  an  insane  and  sterile 
solitude,  rose  in  her  heart  like  a  corroding  poison.  And  what 
of  that  invincible  inward  happiness  of  which  she  had  so  com- 
placently discoursed  to  Lawrence  but  a  short  while  ago?  Ah, 
it  was  easy  to  talk!  All  she  knew  now  was  that  her  whole 
life  stayed  suspended  till  her  next  meeting  with  Louis. 

VI 

September  had  come  again;  gusty  and  golden,  and  Joanna 
had  not  yet  been  put  to  that  test  she  had  almost  a  year  before 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  313 

imagined  herself  as  meeting  with  a  perfection  of  equanimity. 

She  was  in  good  spirits,  standing  before  her  mirror  and 
trying  on  an  absurd  little  blue  hat.  She  pinned  its  feather — 
its  feather  that  so  beautifully  matched  her  jade  necklace — first 
at  the  front  like  a  hussar;  then  at  back  like  a  sportsman;  then 
at  one  side  like  a  coquette.  And  she  wondered  if  Phemie  too 
was  pinning  on  a  feather  at  the  other  side  of  the  world. 
Though  she  was  only  going  to  a  private  view  of  Arts  and 
Crafts,  where  she  was  hardly  likely  to  see  Louis,  she  had 
dressed  with  special  care. 

Her  summer  holiday  had  refreshed  her,  and  had  been  unex- 
pectedly happy.  She  and  Linnet  and  their  mother  had  en- 
joyed themselves  very  peacefully  in  one  of  the  remoter  West 
Coast  villages,  and  the  weather  had  continued  so  fine  that  she 
had  left  them  there  for  another  week  or  two  by  the  sea.  That 
her  mother  and  she  would  be  setting  up  house  together  in 
London  (Georgie  expected  a  baby  early  in  February)  was 
finally  decided.  But  it  no  longer  seemed  a  calamity.  It  was 
simply  a  situation,  and  a  situation  Joanna  now  boasted,  could 
always  be  mastered  with  good  will  and  management. 

Certainly  things  for  the  moment  were  going  well  with  her. 
Her  holiday  had  been  good,  but  it  was  still  better  to  be  back 
in  London.  Her  theater  work  was  now  well  established,  yet 
remained  enough  of  a  novelty  to  be  an  excitement.  Louis 
had  praised  her  last  two  drawings,  and  praise  from  him  was 
sweet.  Even  sweeter  had  been  the  extraordinary  solicitude 
he  had  shown  on  the  night  of  her  return  a  week  before.  Her 
train  had  been  an  hour  late,  but  Louis  was  waiting  on  the  plat- 
form— a  thing  she  had  scarcely  allowed  herself  to  hope  for 
during  the  crowded  and  exhausting  journey.  He  would  have 
walked  the  station  all  night,  he  vowed,  if  need  be.  And, 
the  Moons  being  away  in  the  country  (for  the  first  time  these 
three  years,  Trissie  had  written  grimly),  he  had  himself  under- 
taken her  comfort,  not  only  at  the  station  but  in  the  empty 
house  afterwards.  He  had  coaxed  her  to  eat  and  drink,  had 
shaken  out  her  travelling  clothes,  had  insisted  with  unfamiliar 
tenderness  on  airing  her  sheets  and  taking  off  her  shoes. 
More  than  by  the  expected  passion  of  their  first  meeting 
after  weeks  of  separation,  had  she  been  stirred  and  made  glad 
by  his  new  care  of  her. 

She  decided  upon  keeping  the  little  green  feather  at  one  side. 

Though  there  was  not  -a  tree  in  Chapel  Court,  its  corners 


314  OPEN   THE    DOOR 

were  heaped  with  leaves  this  yellow  September  afternoon,  and 
the  wind  kept  blowing  them  about  the  paving  stones  and 
against  the  walls  of  the  houses.  When  front  doors  were 
opened  it  even  blew  them  upstairs  and  into  the  top  rooms ;  and 
now  again  a  solitary,  crumpled  leaf  tossed  high  in  the  air, 
would  fly  in  at  a  window. 

One  came  sailing  in  at  the  top  of  Joanna's  window  now,  just 
as  she  had  set  the  feather  to  her  liking.  It  sailed  in,  as  if 
doubtfully,  then  floated  downward  and  wavered  against  her 
breast. 

"Another  happy  year!  "  she  murmured  joyously  as  she 
caught  it.  There  was  no  longer  any  grief  in  the  memory  of 
that  company  of  milk-white-trees  of  Vallombrosa  under  which 
she  had  fled  about  with  Mario,  trying  to  catch  the  falling 
leaves. 

So  exhilarated  was  she,  and  so  vivid  were  all  her  sensations 
during  the  walk  of  twenty  minutes  to  the  gallery,  that  on 
getting  there  she  found  the  specimens  of  Art  and  Craft  dull 
by  comparison. 

Really — as  often  happens  with  a  certain  kind  of  solitary 
exhilaration  when  it  is  transferred  from  a  vague  to  a  definite 
setting — a  peculiar  reaction  had  taken  place.  Joanna  herself 
was  not  immediately  aware  of  it.  She  merely  condemned 
the  exhibits  as  astonishingly  tame,  and  turned  instead  to 
look  at  the  people.  Very  likely,  she  told  herself,  she  might 
see  some  one  she  knew;  and  with  a  little  unacknowledged 
sinking  of  her  heart  she  admitted  it  would  be  pleasant  at  the 
moment  to  have  company. 

Having  already  made  a  vain  tour  of  all  the  rooms  with  this 
in  mind,  she  now  returned  to  the  first  room  and  began  to  watch 
the  new  arrivals  as  they  came  in  from  the  street  through  the 
principal  swing  doors.  Above  these  doors  was  a  clock.  It 
pointed,  as  Joanna  absently  noticed,  to  a  quarter  past  five. 

All  at  once,  as  if  some  stony  word  had  been  uttered  in  her 
ear,  her  body  became  tense.  She  had  seen  Louis  enter  the 
room.  And  with  him  was  his  wife.  Joanna  had  never  seen 
his  wife  before,  but  she  could  not  be  mistaken.  That  smiling 
woman  swathed  in  smoke  gray  for  whom  he  had  held  open  the 
door  was  she.  Joanna  knew  it,  though  now,  as  she  saw,  there 
were  two  other  women  with  him.  A  tall  old  man  and  a  young 
man  followed. 

The  party,  self-absorbed  and  moving  leisurely,  proceeded 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  315 

through  the  first  room.  Clearly  the  object  of  their  visit  did 
not  lie  here.  And  now  Joanna  was  conscious  only  of  disap- 
pointment. Louis  had  not  seen  her!  How  she  had  prayed, 
while  awful  things  were  happening  in  her  breast,  her  throat, 
her  limbs,  that  he  would  not  see  her.  But  now  he  was  almost 
at  the  further  door,  and  she  could  not  bear  it.  Her  feet  carried 
her  rapidly  up  the  long,  crowded  room  after  him. 

There  they  were,  in  the  next  room  now.  She  stood  in  the 
doorway,  looking.  Why,  of  course  it  was  the  Mortlake  tiles 
they  had  come  to  see!  Some  dozen  of  them  were  showing  in 
that  case  .  .  .  rare  old  Persian  ones  ..."  a  sight  more  worth 
while  than  most  pictures!  "  Louis  had  said  of  them  once 
cocking  up  his  eyebrows  in  sincerest  admiration.  .  .  .  And 
that  tall,  old  man  was  Sir  John  Mortlake.  .  .  .  Had  she  not 
a  drawing  of  his  leonine  head  at  home  on  the  back  of  a  receipt? 

It  was  a  small  room,  and  as  the  Pender  party  had  just  met 
more  friends,  they  seemed  to  fill  it  up.  Louis  was  introducing 
some  one  to  the  smoke-gray  woman.  His  voice  and  manner 
seemed  to  imply  that  the  gallery  existed  for  him  and  his 
friends. 

"  You  know  my  wife?  ..." 

Each  time  his  voice  sounded  shutters  of  darkness  kept  de- 
scending across  Joanna's  line  of  vision.  But  it  was  as  if  in 
addition  to  her  ordinary  sight  she  possessed  some  microscopic 
inner  eye  which  was  exempt  from  emotion;  and  with  this 
she  continued  to  register  facts. 

That  young  man,  it  said,  was  not  Francis,  his  father's 
favorite:  that  was  Oliver,  the  soldier's  son.  And  the  pretty, 
fair  girl  was  his  wife,  Marietta. 

Yet,  when  it  came  to  Mrs.  Pender,  the  tinily  working 
mechanism  would  only  chronicle  a  dress.  Nothing  but  a 
dress!  A  very  beautiful  dress  it  was  .  .  .  remarkable  even 
among  the  many  unusual  toilettes  surrounding  it  ...  other 
women  had  to  turn  and  look  at  it  with  admiration.  .  .  .  But 
what  of  the  face  above  these  subtle  folds  and  draperies?  Do 
what  she  would,  Joanna  could  not  see  it.  She  was  anxious 
to  see  it,  and  by  looking  once  or  twice  aside,  tried  to  refresh 
her  vision  for  seeing  it.  But  no!  The  nodding,  smiling, 
ineloquent  face  of  the  woman  baffled  her  each  time.  And 
though  she  gazed  till  she  was  almost  in  a  stupor  with  gazing 
she  could  see  only  a  smiling  nothing  under  a  hat. 

"  She's  nothing!  "  cried  the  girl  in  her  heart  with  fierce 


3i6  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

satisfaction.  "  She's  nothing  .  .  .  like  Irene.  How  can  he 
laugh  and  talk  like  that?  Why  does  he  bear  it?  " 

Undoubtedly  Louis  appeared  very  sprightly.  Was  this 
his  Society  manner?  Joanna  shivered.  She  remembered  his 
half  amused  strutting  on  the  night  she  first  met  him.  He 
was  never  like  that  with  her  now,  she  thanked  Heaven! 

But  this  was  what  he  could  not  give  up  for  her.  A  nausea 
crept  over  her. 

Still  she  couldn't  turn  and  leave  the  place.  She  could  not 
go  till  she  had  seen  his  face  in  recognition. 

At  that  moment  Louis  turned  with  a  roving  eye  and  saw 
her.  He  made  no  visible  movement.  For  perhaps  three 
seconds  he  stood  staring  straight  at  her,  maintaining  the  same 
apparently  easy  posture,  yet  Joanna  knew  him  rigid  in  every 
sinew. 

Then  he  shifted  his  hat  very  slightly  on  his  head,  and  turned 
away.  There  had  not  come  the  faintest  change  on  his  face. 
It  was  less  an  acknowledgment  than  a  denial.  It  would  rob 
her  of  identity. 

Joanna  went  out.  She  passed  down  the  long  room  steadily, 
pushed  herself  through  the  swing  doors,  and  after  walking 
blindly  for  some  minutes  found  herself  in  Regent  Street.  Here 
she  paused  for  a  moment  as  if  overtaken  in  spite  of  her  haste 
by  what  she  most  desired  to  escape.  What  a  sickness  was 
this!  What  a  devastating  disgust! 

"  Shall  I  bear  it?  "  she  asked.  And  she  spoke  the  question 
again  and  again,  in  a  low  voice  but  audibly  as  if  it  relieved  her. 
"  Shall  I  bear  it?  Shall  I  bear  it?  " 

That  she  could  bear  it — alas!  even  now  she  knew.  Already 
the  old  excuses  were  beginning  to  marshal  themselves  for 
Louis.  What  should  she  have  done  in  his  place?  What  else 
could  he  have  done?  In  the  circumstances  would  it  not  have 
been  the  most  distressing  folly  for  him  to  have  acted  other- 
wise? And  she  herself  was  a  party  to  circumstance.  It  was 
only  because  of  her  extraordinary  lack  of  imagination  that  she 
now  suffered  so  acutely.  Nothing  was  altered. 

Not  only  by  her  reason,  but  by  her  proved  capacity  for  en- 
durance she  knew  she  might  bear  it.  How  she  could  revel 
in  the  part  of  the  oppressed  and  humble  still!  How  she 
could  hug  to  her  bosom  the  secret  jewel  with  its  luster  turned 
inward,  which  is  the  inalienable  treasure  of  the  outcast!  Was 
it  not  this  that  she  had  unwittingly  coveted  when  for  a  penance 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  317 

she  had  kissed  the  blind  beggar?  Besides,  did  anything  she 
had  seen  to-day  make  her  need  Louis  less?  And  was  it  less 
true  what  he  had  said — "  If  you  leave  go  of  me,  I  shall  be  in 
the  mire?  " 

She  could  bear  it. 

But  would  she? 

It  was  not  true  that  nothing  was  altered.  Louis  had  been 
lowered  in  her  eyes.  She  had  seen  him  joined  to  his  idols. 

And  where  did  the  blame  lie?  In  his  weakness,  or  in  her 
own  dreadful  endurance  and  humility? 

This  was  what  must  be  put  to  the  test  for  his  sake  as  well 
as  for  hers.  Her  lust  for  sacrifice  should  be  gratified  no 
longer.  Would  he  also  put  his  infirmity  behind  him?  She 
had  made  her  choice.  He  must  make  his.  If  the  mire  was 
his  place,  let  him  sink  into  it..  It  was  cleaner  than  the  stifling 
falseness  into  which  she  had  dragged  him. 

Having  walked  about  for  nearly  two  hours,  now  in  a  sick 
fury,  now  in  concentrated  thought,  she  slowly  returned  to 
Chapel  Court. 

Her  face  under  the  rakish  little  hat  looked  pinched  as  if 
by  illness.  But  as  she  was  wearily  opening  the  Moons' 
green  door,  she  stopped,  and  a  more  hopeful  expression  came 
over  her  features. 

Some  one  had  begun  to  thump  out  the  tune  called  Simple 
Aveu  upon  a  neighboring  piano. 

Vulgar  and  sugary  air!  How  often  in  her  early  teens  had 
Georgie  wakened  the  household  of  a  morning  by  practising  it 
thinly  upon  her  fiddle!  The  atmosphere  it  now  conjured  up 
was  one  of  so  utter,  so  unsuspectedly  morbid  a  dreariness,  that 
Joanna  was  forced  to  take  comfort  thereat.  Whatever  life 
might  be  now,  it  was  a  thousand  times  better  than  it  had  been 
then!  Not  before  had  she  realized  to  the  full  the  unhappiness 
of  her  teens.  If  she  were  at  that  moment,  half  so  unhappy, 
she  would  certainly  kill  herself.  But  she  had  something  better 
to  do. 

In  the  house  a  telegram  awaited  her.    It  was  from  Linnet. 


It  was  a  telegram  of  eleven  words. 

Joanna  read  it  once.     After  a  short,  passive  interval  she 
read  it  a  second  time.    After  a  longer,  more  actve  interval 


3i8  OPEN   THE    DOOR 

she  read  it  a  third  time.  But  already  at  the  third  time  she 
knew  it  by  heart. 

When  she  drew  the  thin,  folded  slip  out  of  its  envelope  that 
she  might  read  it  a  fourth  time,  she  was  seated  in  the  night 
express  on  her  way  to  Scotland.  She  still  knew  it  by  heart. 
For  the  past  five  hours  it  had  been  reiterating  itself  in  her 
brain,  even  on  her  lips.  What  was  more,  the  wheels  under  her 
carriage  and  the  pulsing  engine  in  front,  had  both  got  it  by 
heart.  They  kept  repeating  the  eleven  words  over  and  over 
in  a  kind  of  drone.  But  though  this  was  so,  though  it  had 
caused  her  to  do  so  many  things  with  collected  swiftness; 
though  it  had  brought  her  to  the  station,  and  had  put  her  into 
this  train  that  swung  and  thudded  northwards,  perhaps  it 
was  all  a  mistake,  a  figment  of  her  own  tired  brain? 

So  she  read  it  for  the  fourth  time: 

"  Mother  not  well  don't  worry  but  think  you  should  come 
Linnet. " 

It  was  dated  from  the  village  where  she  had  left  her  mother 
and  Linnet.  And  it  had  been  dispatched  at  5:15  p.m.  .  .  . 
A  quarter  past  five!  The  hour  upon  the  clock  over  the  swing 
doors  of  the  picture  gallery!  Just  as  she  had  caught  sight  of 
Louis  Linnet's  message  had  started  trembling  along  a  wire 
in  the  North! 

A  long,  long  time  ago  it  seemed.  Far  longer  than  five 
hours.  And  it  was  the  telegram  that  had  made  it  so.  Because 
the  telegram  had  compelled  action.  It  had  visibly  and  in  an 
instant  transformed  her  life,  while  that  other  had  produced 
nothing  but  emotions.  Under  the  violence  of  the  new  com- 
pulsion,  Joanna  was  tempted  for  a  moment  to  deny  the  impor- 
tance of  the  earlier  event.  It  seemed  trivial  beside  the  fact 
of  her  mother's  illness.  But  she  was  growing  honest  and  she 
refused  the  evasion.  What  had  happened  in  the  picture 
gallery  was  important,  but  it  could  be  left.  That  was  all. 
The  summons  from  Linnet  could  not  wait.  Their  mother 
was  ill.  When  had  she  been  taken  ill?  He  did  not  say. 
There  had  been  no  hint  of  illness  in  any  letter.  A  week 
ago  she  had  been  well — particularly  well.  How  ill  was  she 
now? 

"  Don't  worry,"  Linnet  had  said,  and  Joanna  had  dwelt  on 
that  part  of  his  message  in  her  hurried  talk  with  Georgie  before 
leaving  London.  They  all  knew  that  Linnet  was  helpless  in 
the  slightest  case  of  illness  at  home.  How  much  more  so, 


OPEN   THE   DOOR  319 

away  there  in  that  remote  village,  and  under  such  primitive 
conditions.  It  was  natural  that  he  should  send  for  one  of  his 
sisters.  And  Georgie  was  not  in  a  state  to  travel. 

She  was  not  to  worry.  Linnet  had  expressly  said  so.  But 
Joanna  lay  awake  all  night  in  the  train  and  knew  that  there 
was  no  hope.  Linnet,  when  he  telegraphed,  had  not  known 
that  there  was  no  hope.  She  was  sure  of  that.  His  tele- 
gram had  told  her  what  he  himself  did  not  or  would  not 
know. 

Though  she  could  not  sleep,  she  lay  down,  trying  to  rest. 
The  day  had  told  upon  her  in  an  aching  fatigue,  and  she  must 
save  the  strength  that  remained  for  what  was  coming.  To- 
wards morning  she  slept  a  very  little. 

In  Glasgow  she  found  there  was  a  coast  train  she  might 
catch  with  a  rush,  and  a  later  one  which  would  give  her  time 
for  some  tea  and  a  wash.  "  Don't  worry,"  Linnet  had  said. 
But  Joanna  raced  for  the  first  train,  and  scrambled  into  it 
as  it  was  moving. 

On  the  steamer  she  swallowed  some  breakfast,  though  the 
thick,  round  oaten  biscuits,  which  in  childhood  she  had  en- 
joyed, were  as  sawdust  in  her  mouth.  It  was  a  rough,  bright 
crossing.  There  was  a  band,  to  which  the  plunging  paddle 
seemed  to  keep  time  and  all  the  white,  churned  wake  to 
dance.  Everything  recalled  the  unforgettable  journeys  of 
childhood  .  .  .  with  piles  of  luggage,  baths  with  straps  round 
them,  perambulators,  bags  of  biscuits  for  the  sea-gulls  .... 
their  father  pacing  the  deck  springily,  laughing  with  the  wind 
in  his  beard  .  .  .  their  mother  falling  asleep  in  a  sheltered 
corner  with  a  tired,  happy  face.  But  now  all  the  blown  people 
on  the  deck  looked  like  ghosts. 

Upon  landing  she  was  told  that  no  coach  ran  till  the  arrival 
of  the  next  steamer,  an  hour  later.  So  she  started  on  foot, 
leaving  her  bag  to  follow  by  coach.  She  set  out  at  a  good 
pace,  but  very  soon  her  fears  made  the  slowness  of  walking 
unbearable,  and  she  broke  into  a  run.  She  ran  till  her  breath 
came  in  agonizing  gasps  and  she  was  forced  to  walk  again. 
She  was  not  to  worry.  ...  It  was  probably  only  a  bad  cold, 
or  perhaps  another  gastric  attack  like  the  one  at  the  time  of 
the  removal — nothing  really  serious.  But  the  question  was, 
would  she  get  there  in  time?  If  she  went  on  walking  she 
would  be  too  late.  So  she  ran  again.  And  so  she  kept 
on  running  and  then  walking,  and  then  running  again — but 


320  OPEN   THE    DOOR 

mostly  running — all  the  way  along  the  winding,  coast  road, 
with  her  eyes  continuously  dazzled  by  the  glittering  morning 
sea.  She  had  about  four  miles  to  go. 

At  last.  There  was  the  cottage!  It  was  the  very  end  one 
at  the  far-away  end  of  a  row  of  small,  white  cottages,  some 
thatched,  some  slated,  which  stood  only  about  half  a  mile 
ahead  round  the  bay.  Everything  looked  as  it  had  looked 
on  the  morning,  little  more  than  a  week  before,  when  Joanna 
had  left  for  London.  The  peat  smoke  rose  comfortingly  from 
the  chimneys  into  the  pale  blue  sky:  dogs  barked:  children 
were  playing  on  the  road  between  the  cottages  and  the  sea. 

And  there  was  Linnet! 

He  waved  his  hand,  shouted,  disappeared  into  the  cottage 
and  in  less  than  half  a  minute  came  out  again  and  began  run- 
ning towards  her. 

Joanna  waved  and  ran  faster.  It  was  all  right  after  all. 
She  need  really  not  have  worried.  Linnet  would  not  wave 
and  shout  if.  mother  was  dead.  He  must  have  dashed  into 
the  cottage  just  to  tell  her. 

"  I  knew  you  would  come," — Linnet's  first  words  clashed 
with  the  sighing — "How  is  she?  "  that  came  from  his  sister 
as  they  both  sped  on  without  pausing  a  moment. 

"  She'll  be  as  right  as  rain  now  you  are  here,"  he  said 
soothingly  (but  with  what  relief!)  as  he  took  the  breath- 
less Joanna's  arm.  ..."  She  was  so  pleased  when  your  wire 
came."  And  he  told  how  their  mother  had  been  well — never 
in  her  life  better — and  in  splendid  spirits,  till  three  days  ago 
when  she  had  been  taken  ill  in  the  night  with  bad  pains.  In 
the  morning  she  had  been  better,  but  worse  again  towards 
evening.  It  had  only  been  yesterday  morning,  that  he  had 
gone,  without  telling  her,  to  fetch  the  doctor.  Mother  had 
been  cross.  She  was  positive  a  strange  doctor  couldn't  under- 
stand her  constitution,  but  she  had  been  glad  to  see  him  all 
the  same,  and  had  taken  his  medicine.  But  this  morning, 
all  of  a  sudden,  she  had  seemed  rather  low.  It  was  good  that 
Joanna  had  come  to  nurse  her. 

Joanna  hardly  listened  to  Linnet's  words.  She  heard  in  a 
heavy  stupor  of  amazement  his  declaration  that,  though  he 
had  sent  for  her,  he  had  not  been  the  least  anxious  till  this 
morning.  But  in  her  pocket  she  had  his  telegram  of  the  day 
before  giving  her  no  hope.  And  for  all  his  voluble  reassur- 
ances he  had  not  yet  contradicted  that  message. 


OPEN   THE    DOOR  321 

He  waited  in  the  tiny,  littered  sitting-room  while  his  sister 
went  through  to  her  mother's  bedroom  beyond. 

There  was  a  dreadful,  cottage  closeness  in  the  air  that  puffed 
out  to  meet  her  as  she  opened  the  door.  And  mingling  with 
it  came  an  abhorrent  breath,  which  the  girl  recognized  though 
it  had  never  before  blown  against  her  face. 


VI 

On  the  bed,  under  a  tumbled  patchwork  quilt  lay  Juley. 
Without  changing  her  uneasy  attitude  she  turned  her  face 
as  her  daughter  came  in. 

"  My  own  dear  child !  "  she  said,  with  a  curious,  difficult 
utterance.  But  her  eyes  were  lit  up. 

Joanna  put  her  arms  round  her  mother,  kneeling  by  the 
bed,  and  the  tears  rained  down  her  cheeks. 

"  I  came  as  quick  as  I  could,  my  darling,"  she  said,  laying 
her  head  on  Juley's  breast.  "  And  now  I'll  never  leave  you 
again." 

Juley  stroked  her  child's  head  in  silence. 

"  How  are  you  dear?  Are  you  better?  Is  the  pain  gone? 
Can  I  get  you  anything?  " 

"  Quite  gone.  I'm  better.  No,  nothing  to  drink  .  .  .  I'll 
soon  be  well  .  .  .  but  I'm  uncomfortable,  and  how  untidy 
the  room  is." 

"  That's  what  I'm  here  for — to  make  you  comfortable. 
This  isn't  like  you,  Mother,"  Joanna,  chided,  drawing  herself 
gently  away  and  looking  about  the  dark,  untidy  little  room. 
"What  a  mess!  Linnet  is  a  bad  nurse.  Shall  I  tidy  up  a 
bit  before  the  doctor  comes,  or  is  there  anything  I  can  get  for 
you  first?  "  She  tried  to  speak  with  composure. 

"  No,  dear.  Tidy  ...  I'd  like  th'  room  tidied  ...  but 
leave  the  bed  ...  no  pain  now  .  .  .  but  must  keep  still 
.  .  .  don't  touch.  ..." 

Joanna  who  was  trying  to  open  the  deep-set,  impossible 
window,  looked  round  aghast.  The  sick  woman  beginning 
the  sentence  distinctly  enough,  was  now  mumbling  like  a 
drunken  person,  and  at  the  end  of  the  mumble  there  was  a 
little,  dreadful  gulp.  Running  to  the  bedside  the  girl  saw 
that  a  change  had  come  over  the  face  on  the  pillow. 

"Linnet!"  she  called  out  loudly.  "Fetch  the  doctor! 
And  run!  Run!  " 


322  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

As  if  he  had  been  waiting  for  that  word,  Linnet  sped  from 
the  cottage. 

And  now  Juley's  face  had  changed  still  more.  She  raised 
her  strong,  beautiful  voice  in  what  seemed  urgent  speech, 
but  Joanna,  to  her  despair  could  not  distinguish  a  word, 
not  even  a  syllable  in  the  sounds  that  came.  She  would 
have  given  her  life  to  read  the  meaning  in  the  eyes  that 
gazed  with  such  intentness  of  supplication  into  hers.  But  she 
could  not. 

She  tried  to  find  some  comfort  in  the  strength  of  her  mother's 
voice.  Dying  people  surely  spoke  feebly? 

"  Don't  talk  now,  darling.  It  will  tire  you.  I'm  not  going 
away.  We  can  talk  afterwards.  Shall  I  read  to  you  .  .  . 
the  morning  verses?  "  Joanna  pleaded.  And  she  held  up  the 
familiar,  worn  copy  of  Daily  Light  with  its  stamped  leather 
covers  and  a  star  on  the  back,  which  had  lain  by  Juley's 
bedside  these  forty  years. 

But  Juley  shook  her  head  emphatically. 

"No,  no!"  she  said — "not  now."  And  having  clearly 
uttered  these  words  she  babbled  off  again,  vehement  but 
incomprehensible. 

Then  she  stopped  speaking,  and  a  look  of  extreme  surprise 
crossed  her  face. 

Joanna,  beside  herself  with  helplessness,  tried  to  give  her 
water  in  a  tea-spoon,  tried  brandy  and  water.  But  the  liquid 
only  ran  down  outside  the  unconscious  mouth  .  .  . 

And  the  next  moment  Juley's  face  passed  from  surprise 
to  profound  preoccupation.  She  seemed  to  sink  within  her- 
self, drew  one  long  terrible  breath,  and  frowned  intently. 
Joanna  looked  for  the  first  time  upon  death. 

vn 

Linnet  had  not  yet  returned,  and  after  the  first  panic  and 
blankness,  Joanna  resumed  her  mechanical  task  of  tidying 
her  mother's  room.  It  was  the  last  thing  she  had  been  clearly 
asked  to  do.  And  as  she  did  it  she  became  gradually  aware 
of  a  deep  contentment  which  she  could  neither  understand 
nor  question.  Soon  she  would  be  involved  in  the  explosion  of 
mourning.  There  was  Linnet,  poor  boy!  Georgie  would 
have  to  be  told.  The  doctor  would  come,  and  with  him  an 
unending,  impertinent  train  of  arrangements  and  condolences. 
But  now,  for  this  little  while,  she  felt  close  to  her  mother 


OPENTHEDOOR  323 

as  never  before.  Without  speech  they  seemed  to  share  the 
secrets  of  life  and  death.  Soon  enough  would  grief  with  its 
clumsy  trappings  and  its  real  pain  smash  the  exquisite  prism. 
Then  all  would  be  chaotic  and  desolate  again.  None  must 
rob  them  of  this  moment  of  union.  It  was  infinitely  precious 
and  perfect. 

So  Joanna  made  the  toilette  table  neat,  arranged  the  bottles 
together  on  the  crazy  mantelpiece,  and  tried  to  make  the  room 
seemly  as  her  mother  had  liked  it  to  be. 

But  each  time  she  turned  away,  the  bed  drew  her  back. 
And  she  came  again  and  again  to  gaze  at  her  mother.  She 
laid  her  hand  upon  the  forehead,  and  her  flesh  recoiled  from 
the  waxen  coldness  of  that  contact.  This  then  was  death. 
We  must  all  die  and  be  like  this.  No  wonder  little  Ollie 
had  cried.  No  wonder!  Joanna  was  filled  for  the  moment 
with  anger  against  the  physical  outrage  of  death.  She  searched 
the  immovable  face,  questioned  it  fearfully.  We  must  all 
die.  None  could  escape.  But  here  was  one  who  had  been 
used  to  speak  of  death  as  of  hidden  treasure,  to  be  waited 
for  with  patience,  but  to  be  coveted  exceedingly.  Now  she 
had  her  wish.  What  was  it  to  her?  In  that  last  profound 
withdrawal  by  which  she  had  met  it,  had  she  been  afraid,  or 
joyous,  or  simply  unconscious? 

Though  the  frown  remained  a  stern  furrow  between  the 
brows,  the  puzzled  look  was  gone;  and  now  the  face  seemed 
full  of  judgment.  Joanna  had  heard  that  the  faces  of  the 
dead  were  peaceful.  This  face  was  set  in  a  perfect  stillness 
of  indignation  and  judgment.  Juley,  the  merciful,  the  striver, 
the  stricken,  had  become  the  judge.  And  to  her  child  she 
would  not  say  one  word.  She  lay  there  in  grave,  remote,  in- 
exorable understanding,  in  unrelenting  judgment  that  would 
never  be  disclosed. 

As  Joanna  was  trying  unavailingly  to  straighten  the  bright 
quilt  over  the  already  stiffening  body,  a  printed  card  slipped 
from  a  fold  of  the  pachwork  into  her  hand.  It  was  lettered 
in  blue,  with  red  capitals  and  gold  underlining,  and  she  knew 
it  must  have  fallen  earlier  out  of  Daily  Light,  within  the  flaps 
of  which  it  had  been  Juley's  custom  to  cherish  such  things. 

"  These  children  are  dear  to  Me,"  it  ran:  "  Be  a  mother 
to  them  and  more  than  a  mother.  Watch  over  them  tenderly. 
Be  just  and  kind.  If  thy  heart  is  not  large  enough  to  embrace 
them,  I  will  enlarge  it  after  a  pattern  of  My  Own.  If  these 


324  OPEN    THE    DOOR 

young  children  are  docile  and  obedient,  bless  Me  for  it:  if 
they  are  forward,  call  upon  Me  for  help:  if  they  weary  thee,  I 
will  be  thy  Consolation:  if  thou  sink  under  thy  burden,  I  will 
be  thy  Reward." 

The  daughter,  having  read,  leaned  down,  whispered  some- 
thing in  her  dead  mother's  ear,  and  ran  out  of  the  cottage  blind 
with  tears. 

This  was  death.  Not  the  cold  forehead,  the  stillness,  the 
sad,  uncouth  posture.  But  this — that  the  child  could  never 
again  say — "  I  love  you,"  and  see  her  mother's  eyes  light 
up  with  joy!  How  unimaginable  it  was,  and  how  pitiful, 
that  she  should  now  have  to  ask  herself  whether  once  in  all  these 
years  of  womanhood  she  had  clearly  and  simply  declared  her 
love!  Now  it  seemed  to  her  that  all  these  years  her  mother 
had  been  supplicating  for  that  alone.  And  now  it  was  too 
late. 

In  the  afternoon  Joanna  and  an  old  woman  from  the  village 
washed  Juley's  body  and  dressed  it  for  burial. 

The  brother  and  sister  took  turns  in  sitting  by  the  dead  till 
morning.  Sometimes  they  remained  a  while  together,  talking 
in  low  tones.  One  or  twice  they  laughed  a  little.  They  felt 
like  plotters. 

At  dawn  Joanna  was  there  alone,  and  suddenly  she  could 
endure  the  room  no  longer.  What  foolishness  to  stay  here 
when  her  mother  had  escaped — had  gone  like  a  bird  over  a 
lake — had  fled  and  left  behind  all  the  tedious,  daily  matters 
she  had  so  hated,  the  staleness,  the  fearfulness,  the  makeshifts, 
the  heavy,  dragging  carcase  of  flesh ! 

Outside  on  the  road  before  the  cottage  door,  she  drew  the 
breath  of  the  early  morning  deep  into  her  weary  body.  After 
the  night  in  that  miserable,  airless  death-chamber,  she  knew 
how  to  savor  the  caller  saltness  of  the  sea- weed  and  wet  rocks: 
she  could  detect  by  turning  her  face  inland,  that  warmer  yet 
as  sharp  fragrance  of  the  bog-myrtle:  and  through  eager 
nostrils  she  inhaled  the  homely  pungency  of  the  peat-reek. 
In  her  blood  she  could  feel  the  stirring  and  upstanding  of  the 
millions  of  tiny  plants  upon  the  hillside.  With  her  blood  she 
knew  them — the  little  spiky,  spotted,  orchises,  the  knowing 
fly-catchers  with  sticky  leaves,  the  waxy  heads  of  bell-heather, 
the  small  daisy  buds — innocent  buds  that  like  cherubim  and 
seraphim,  covered  their  faces  with  all  their  narrow,  crimson- 
tipt  feathers.  The  sun  was  not  yet  risen,  but  the  sky  looked 


OPENTHEDOOR  325 

pearly,  and  far  up  some  flakes  of  cloud,  winging  higher  than 
the  rest,  were  rosy  with  prophecy. 

Thep  along  the  horizon  a  line  of  fishing-smacks  came  beating 
back  to  harbor  after  the  night's  catch. 

A  meaning,  a  cohesion  in  everything  she  saw,  struck  on 
Joanna's  spirit  as  the  opening  bars  of  a  compelling  air  of  music 
strike  on  the  ear.  The  freshness,  the  pulsing  flight  of  some 
birds  speeding  inland,  the  faint  stirring  of  the  trees,  the  first 
thin,  blue  smoke  rising  from  a  distant  cottage  chimney — 
these  were  harmonies  in  a  complicated  yet  decisive  theme. 
They  were  full  of  solutions.  They  gave  release  to  all  that  was 
cramped  and  tortured  in  the  heart.  And  dominating  all  of 
them — like  a  thought,  like  melody,  like  the  soul  of  man — 
went  the  tiny,  indomitable  brown  sails,  beating  along  home 
between  the  sea  and  the  sky. 

VIII 

But  the  funeral  and  all  connected  with  it  was  a  progression 
of  horrors. 

On  the  steamer,  the  coffin  having  been  slung  on  board  from 
the  ferry  like  any  other  piece  of  heavy  luggage,  Linnet  and 
Joanna  felt  as  if  they  were  the  sharers  in  a  shameful  secret. 
In  Glasgow,  the  house  stank  with  the  sweetness  of  white 
flowers,  most  of  them  sent  out  of  mere  respect  by  old  acquain- 
tances of  their  father,  so  that  to  Juley's  children  the  names 
on  the  cards  were  but  names.  And  the  rooms  seemed  always 
full  of  whispering  people  who  would  belie  the  dead  by  their 
praises.  The  only  relief  came  from  such  of  Juley's  poor  folk 
as  came  timidly  to  the  door  that  they  might  look  once  more 
upon  her  face  and  weep.  For  to  them  Juley  had  been  but 
goodness  and  mercy,  and  nought  besides. 

Georgie,  in  spite  of  her  condition,  had  travelled  north. 
Her  grief  was  real  and  simple.  Vet  when  she  joined  exuber- 
antly with  Aunt  Georgina,  Aunt  Ellen  and  Mrs.  Boyd  in  cata- 
loguing her  mother's  virtues,  Jcanna  turned  away,  feeling  that 
the  dead  woman  was  deserted  indeed.  If  only  one  of  them 
would  say  the  truth—"  She  failed,"  or  "  She  went  unfulfilled," 
or  "  In  death  alone  has  she  come  to  blossom!  "  But  no.  They 
would  have  it,  perhaps  for  their  own  solace,  that  she  had  gone 
bearing  her  sheaves  with  her. 

More  loving  than  such  love  there  flamed  up  in  Joanna  the 
desire  for  clear  knowledge,  for  the  deep  and  free  admission, 


326  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

in  which  alone  our  failures  may  find  their  absolution,  even 
their  vindication.  Oh,  when  she  came  to  die,  might  there 
be  one  that  kept  knowledge  of  her,  rather  than  many  that 
self-sparingly  loved,  forgave,  and  so  annulled  her ! 

Mabel,  though  she  was  again  at  home,  this  time  with  her 
husband,  did  not  come  to  Glasgow.  Neither  did  she  write 
to  Joanna.  But  she  was  at  some  pains  to  explain  both  omis- 
sions in  a  letter  to  Georgie.  She  hinted  at  certain  of  "  poor 
darling  Aunt  Juley's "  confidences  during  her  stay  at  La 
France  Quadrant  over  a  year  ago.  She  was  "  awfully  sorry  " 
that  under  the  circumstances,  and  as  a  sincere  person,  she  felt 
unable  to  express  the  usual  kind  sympathy  with  Joanna.  And 
so,  as  she  wished  not  only  to  preserve  her  own  integrity  but 
to  avoid  giving  unnecessary  pain,  it  was  better,  wasn't  it, 
that  she  should  not  stand  with  them  by  the  grave?  She  would 
be  with  them  in  spirit.  Joanna,  with  her  hatred  of  false  con- 
ventionality, would  be  the  first,  she  hazarded,  to  appreciate 
her  genuineness.  This  had  not  been  an  easy  letter  to 
write. 

And  along  with  the  letter,  Mabel  sent  an  anchor  of  violets, 
of  which  the  too  faint  natural  scent  had  been  fortified  by  liberal 
sprinklings  of  Ess.  Bouqet. 

Joanna  was  grateful  to  Georgie  for  the  wrath  she  displayed 
over  both  the  letter  and  the  flowers.  The  perfumed  anchor 
was  picked  out  of  its  box  with  the  tongs  and  thrown  upon 
the  fire  to  frizzle.  Georgie  hugged  her  sister  and  swore  she 
would  never  forgive  Mabel,  who  after  all  couldn't  help  being 
a  sneak,  as  she  had  been  born  so.  But  the  cousin's  accusation 
remained  with  Joanna  and  tortured  her. 

Unkindness  .  .  .  neglect  .  .  .  and  was  there  something  be- 
sides? Certainly  Mabel  had  implied  a  more  direct  guilt. 
Joanna  remembered  the  strange  gladness  she  had  felt  during 
these  few  minutes  alone  with  her  dead  mother  before  the  world 
had  broken  in  with  its  lying  and  vulgar  clamor  of  lamenta- 
tion. And  now — it  was  true — except  for  a  moment,  to  give 
and  get  assurances  of  love  beyond  all  question,  to  give  and 
get  the  kiss  of  perfect,  clear-eyed  understanding,  she  would  not 
have  her  mother  back.  A  thousand  times,  no!  Was  she 
then  at  heart  her  mother's  murderer?  Perhaps  she  was.  But 
even  so,  coming  from  Mabel,  the  charge  was  foul.  Mabel, 
who  knew  them  all!  Mabel,  who  with  nods  and  smiles  had 
from  the  very  first,  urged  on  the  breaking  of  the  household. 


OPENTHEDOOR  327 

Oh!  Mabel,  more  hateful  and  destructive  than  any  murderer, 
what  degradation  to  be  blown  upon  by  such  as  you! 

These  miseries  weighed  so  heavily  on  Joanna  that  at  first 
she  hardly  felt  the  stroke  of  outward  shame  that  now  fell  on 
the  family.  And  when  she  did  feel  it,  she  inclined  almost  to 
welcome  it  as  a  destruction. 

Yet  in  itself  it  was  grave  enough.  On  the  division  of  the 
Bannerman  estate,  Linnet  had  had  to  confess  to  speculative 
follies  of  long  standing.  Only  by  foregoing  the  greater  part 
of  their  portions  would  the  girls  and  the  absent  Sholto  be  able 
to  meet  their  brother's  debts  and  prevent  his  public  disgrace. 
And  this  done,  Mr.  Boyd,  as  their  mother's  trustee,  their 
father's  friend,  and  Linnet's  employer,  insisted  seriously  on 
the  expediency  of  Linnet's  leaving  Glasgow  with  the  least 
possible  delay. 

Linnet  himself,  rather  to  everybody's  surprise,  made  no  objec- 
tion. Sholto,  he  declared,  had  long  ago  invited  his  coming 
to  Australia,  and  he  was  not  forced  to  assume  that  Mr.  Boyd 
had  anything  to  do  with  the  prompt  but  hearty  renewal  of 
that  invitation  which  he  now  received  by  cable. 

Joanna  saw  him  off.  To  the  end  he  maintained  an  admir- 
able show  of  unconcern.  He  had  been  deucedly  unfortunate, 
said  his  manner.  And  though  his  sister  could  not  meet 
his  eyes  because  of  that  in  them  which  so  belied  his  words,  she 
had  to  love  him  for  his  refusals,  to  pay  him  tribute  in  that  he 
neither  cringed  nor  broke  down. 

Seeing  her  brother  on  the  deck  of  his  ship,  waving  his  hat 
to  her  in  farewell,  and  with  his  narrow,  finely  cut  head  bare 
against  the  gray  morning  sky,  Joanna  was  confronted  yet 
again  with  her  most  familiar  image.  Like  a  key  the  master 
symbol  of  her  life  heretofore  was  put  into  her  hand  .... 

"  Ev'n  as  a  bird 
Out  of  the  fowler's  snare 
Escapes  away, 
So  is  our  soul  set  free ! " 


CHAPTER  III 


WHEN  the  ugly  flutter  of  death  had  subsided,  Joanna 
with  mounting  terror  discovered  that  her  world  was 
changed.  The  mask  of  stability  had  been  stripped  from  out- 
ward things.  Inherent  deathliness  was  everywhere  made 
visible.  Even  her  own  firm  self  seemed  to  be  crumbling 
within  her. 

Desperately,  and  with  every  subtlety  at  her  command,  she 
fought  against  the  dissolution  which  threatened  on  her  re- 
turn to  London.  She  kept  the  outer  shell  of  her  existence 
intact — the  shell  composed  of  work,  duties,  human  contacts, 
the  care  of  her  room,  her  clothes,  her  body.  And  because 
all  meaning  had  gone  from  these  components — because  her 
work  (though  there  was  more  need  now  than  at  any  former 
time,  that  she  should  bestir  herself  in  making  a  livelihood) 
was  loathsome  to  her,  and  seemed  particularly  useless — this 
was  a  kind  of  heroism. 

Unhappily  it  was  a  heroism  that  demanded  all  her  strength 
and  emptied  her  of  real  courage.  Under  the  strain  of  keeping 
up  appearances  her  resolve  to  force  a  choice  upon  Louis  melted 
quite  away.  Instead  she  turned  frantically  to  him  for  help. 
Louis  had  never  lied  to  her,  thought  she,  never  pretended. 
He  had  been  frank  in  disbelief.  In  him  might  she  not  find 
at  least  a  foothold  of  sure  ground  amid  this  quaking  bog  of 
death? 

Surely  enough  it  looked  at  first  as  if  she  might  get  from  him 
the  succor  she  needed  for  life.  Regarding  the  incident  at 
the  private  view,  he  had  that  same  day  written  to  her;  and 
this  letter,  full  of  love  and  self-loathing  had  reached  her  on 
the  morning  of  Juley's  funeral.  At  their  next  meeting,  some 
weeks  later  a  new  flower  of  passion  had  blossomed  between 
them.  Now  she  longed  for  him  bitterly  all  the  hours  they 
were  apart,  while  Louis  on  his  side  laid  caution  aside  in 
flying  to  her.  But  a  fearful  thing  had  happened  between  them. 
Now  when  she  lay  in  his  arms,  there  came  always  a  vision 

328 


OPEN   THE    DOOR  329 

of  her  mother's  face,  dying  or  dead — The  heavy  frown, 
the  altered  mouth,  the  long,  dreadful  breath.  And  when  he 
left  her  she  was  cold  as  earth. 

She  could  hardly  bear  it.  Yet  even  the  inner  deathliness 
of  his  embraces  still  seemed  better  than  the  final  outward 
rending  of  losing  him.  Did  she  not  love  him?  Her  ideals 
were  all  for  faithfulness  in  love,  and  her  cowardice  pointed 
the  same  way.  Did  he  not  still  need  her,  still  keep  the  power 
to  make  her  tremble  though  with  a  touch,  a  look?  If  that 
went,  what  was  left? 

So  she  was  beset  on  both  sides  by  fear.  And  she  survived 
from  day  to  day,  from  week  to  week,  by  sheer  stiffness  of  will. 

ii 

Early  in  October  Georgie  became  the  joyful  mother  of  a  son. 

Even  before  Juley's  death  Joanna  had  taken  to  spending 
much  of  her  time  with  Georgie.  The  sisters  had  sat  and  sewed 
together  many  hours,  making  baby  clothes.  And  they  had 
spoken  of  all  the  things  sisters  would  inevitably  speak  of  on 
such  occasions.  The  elder  had  been  the  more  voluble,  being, 
like  Aunt  Perdy,  that  kind  of  talker  that  needs  little  more 
than  a  listener.  But  Joanna  too  had  borne  her  part,  and  one 
day  she  had  come  very  near  to  a  full  disclosure  about  Louis 
and  herself.  She  would  certainly  have  made  it  so,  had  not  it 
been  for  her  continual  and  very  sensitive  consciousness  of  Max 
in  the  background.  As  it  was,  she  left  Georgie  in  no  doubt 
that  she  had  had  the  misfortune  to  love  a  married  man  and 
the  temerity  to  make  her  love  the  pivot  of  her  life. 

Immediately  after  their  mother's  death,  the  two,  as  was 
natural,  saw  still  more  of  each  other.  Joanna  was  still  able 
— spasmodically  at  least — to  believe  that  her  world  was  shaken 
by  the  ordinary  course  of  bereavement.  Her  mother,  she 
told  herself,  had  stood,  more  than  could  have  been  guessed, 
for  the  external  seemliness  and  the  underlying  coherence  of 
things.  And  now  that  her  mother  was  gone,  these  were 
challenged.  But  here  was  Georgie,  herself  soon  to  be  a  mother. 
Here  was  Georgie,  eloquent  and  beaming — a  very  embodi- 
ment, if  ever  there  was  one,  of  the  affirmation  that  all  was 
solidly  established  as  before.  In  Georgie's  company  Joanna 
was  able  to  regard  her  own  deathly  knowledge  as  mere,  sickly, 
grieving  fancies.  And  this  was  what  she  frantically  sought. 

Then  in  October  the  baby  boy,  the  treasure  of  treasures, 


330  OPENTHEDOOR 

arrived.  And  amid  that  wonder  and  rejoicing  and  piercing 
wistfulness  of  envy  Joanna  thought  she  perceived  the  way 
by  which  she  might  save  herself. 

Though  it  came  to  her  apparently  as  a  revealing  flash  from 
without,  she  had  no  sooner  measured  its  importance  than  she 
knew  it  had  lain  in  her  heart  for  years  past.  Why  else  had 
she  drawn  such  peculiar  comfort  from  the  presence  of  Ollie  and 
Roddy  in  Chapel  Court?  Why  had  the  tending  of  their 
bodies  so  deeply  stirred  her  own  flesh?  Why  now  did  the 
handling  of  this  small  new  creature  Georgie's  firstborn  send 
so  strange  a  quivering  up  her  arms  to  her  heart,  and  from  her 
heart  back  along  her  limbs  to  the  very  hollows  of  her 
feet? 

The  answer,  she  thought,  was  clear.  If  only  she  might 
bear  Louis  a  child! 

Far  from  raising  new  problems  in  Joanna's  confused  and 
tortured  life  this  idea  offered  her  a  well  nigh  perfect  solution. 
Not  only  did  it  promise  an  enforced  consummation  of  her 
love  for  Louis,  but  the  very  material  difficulties,  which  might 
have  appeared  as  obstacles  to  another  woman,  were  to  her 
so  many  spurs  urging  her  on.  They  attracted  because  they 
seemed  to  show  the  direction  in  which  effort  would  be  worth 
while.  As  for  the  immediate  conventional  bearings  of  the 
situation  she  had  no  fears.  Her  mother  was  dead,  her  brothers 
away,  Georgie  married  and  happy.  And  just  because  she 
was  herself  ready  for  all  risks,  she  knew  she  could  be  prudent. 
Within  the  first  hour  in  which  she  saw  herself  as  a  mother, 
a  complete  program  of  action  arranged  itself  in  her  mind. 
She  would  go,  she  told  herself,  to  Aunt  Perdy's  mountain  top 
to  have  her  child.  If  Louis  chose  to  cleave  to  her  it  would 
be  salvation  for  him  as  well.  If  he  dared  not,  she  would  let 
him  go.  There  would  be  no  alternative.  Besides,  with  a 
girl-babe  like  little  Ollie  or  a  man-child  like  Roddy  sprung  from 
their  love,  she  would  have  her  place  in  that  world  which  now 
was  slipping  from  beneath  her  feet. 

That  Louis  might  refuse  a  demand  at  once  so  imperious  and 
so  reasonable  as  this  seemed  to  her  she  would  hardly  admit. 
He  must  see  clearly  that  it  was  no  more  than  her  right. 
Hers  was  the  ultimate  undertaking,  his  only  whatever  share 
in  the  responsibility  he  freely  desired.  To  any  other  view 
she  closed  her  eyes. 

At  the  same  time,  even  in  her  exaltation,  some  instinct 


OPEN   THE    DOOR  331 

warned  Joanna  to  go  cautiously  to  work.  Men  were  so  strange. 
One  never  knew  with  what  unexpected,  incomprehensible 
prejudice  a  man  might  regard  so  perfectly  straightforward 
a  matter.  And  she  was  in  this  man's  power.  With  every 
logical  and  passionate  argument  on  her  side,  he  could  yet 
deny  her  the  one  vital  thing  left  in  life.  This  made  her  very 
wary,  and  she  waited  for  her  moment  without  saying  a  word 
to  him  of  what  filled  her  mind.  Sometimes  she  thought  he 
looked  at  her  curiously. 

ni 

But  one  day  in  the  Christmas  holidays,  when  Georgie's 
baby  was  three  months  old,  the  sisters  planned  a  shopping 
expedition  on  his  behalf.  Already  he  was  growing  out  of 
all  his  clothes  and  would  presently  be  ready  for  short-coating. 

The  night  before,  Joanna  had  lain  long  awake  thinking 
and  thinking  of  her  mother.  Was  it  after  all  her  death  that 
had  changed  the  face  of  the  world?  Was  it  not  rather  the 
manner  of  her  death?  She  had  gone  without  once  attaining 
the  full  stature  of  her  soul,  without  once  uttering  clearly  the 
word  it  should  have  been  hers  to  utter.  With  all  her  strug- 
gles, her  nobility,  her  sacrifices,  she  was  unfulfilled.  She  was 
like  the  sides  of  an  arch  that  fall  in  together  in  a  heap  because 
the  keystone  is  missing.  Yet  who  had  faith  if  not  she? 
What  had  been  wrong? 

All  at  once  Joanna  turned  in  accusation  upon  her  dead 
father.  In  spite  of  the  unkind  childish  dream  she  had  kept 
his  memory  all  these  years  as  of  some  one  good  beyond 
question,  almost  god-like.  Nor  had  Juley  ceased  to  foster 
to  the  last  this  ideal  image  in  her  children's  minds.  But 
now  this  with  other  security  was  gone  from  life;  and  in  that 
quiet  midnight  hour  Joanna  asked  herself  if  he  was  not 
greatly  to  be  blamed.  Was  it  not  their  father  who  had  failed 
them  all?  Was  the  keystone  of  the  arch  of  fulfilment  not 
placed  in  the  hands  of  the  male? 

She  condemned  him  pitilessly,  as  only  a  woman  can  con- 
demn a  parent.  It  had  been  all  wrong,  that  apparently  happy 
and  peaceful  marriage — wrong  from  beginning  to  end.  There 
had  been  no  beginning  and  no  end.  There  had  been  only  a 
confused  and  accidental  issue  of  wrongness,  of  which  she, 
Joanna,  was  a  part.  She  remembered  the  words — "  In  sin 
did  my  mother  conceive  me."  Why  not —  "  In  sin  did  my 


332  OPEN   THE    DOOR 

father  beget  me  "?  And  in  her  very  bones  she  could  feel  at 
work  that  reward  of  sin  which  is  death. 

She  blamed  her  father.  But  amid  the  heat  and  misery  of 
her  indictment,  Sholto's  face,  so  long  vanished  from  earth, 
rose  cold  and  sweet  and  patient  before  his  daughter,  and  he 
refuted  the  charge.  It  was  long  years  since  she  had  shut  the 
door  against  him  in  her  dreams.  Now  it  seemed  as  if  he 
had  been  waiting  and  waiting  there  outside  for  her  mature 
reproach.  And  was  not  this  patience  of  his,  his  everlasting 
vindication?  O!  the  patience — the  heart-breaking,  awful 
patience  of  the  dead!  O!  that  face  with  its  sweet,  sunshiny 
smile,  and  its  eyes  so  puzzled  and  afraid,  yet  innocent,  like 
the  eyes  of  a  child!  Had  not  he  also,  he  asked  her,  been 
denied  fulfilment?  If  Juley's  soul  through  him  had  suffered 
a  tragic  negation,  what  of  his  own  extreme,  irremediable 
pathos  of  incapacity? 

Weeping  Joanna  turned  her  face  upon  the  bed.  And  weep- 
ing she  forgave  her  father  and  begged  his  forgiveness. 

Next  day  she  tried  to  discover  her  trouble  to  Georgie.  She 
was  almost  speechless  with  shyness;  but  as  they  were  sitting 
alone  together  at  Duntarvie,  drinking  cups  of  chocolate  before 
starting  for  town  to  buy  young  Sholto's  "  shortings,"  she 
managed  to  put  into  poor  words  some  part  of  her  mid-night 
thoughts. 

The  sisters  in  their  black  dresses  sat  facing  each  other  across 
a  small  table  in  the  green  and  white  morning-room.  Georgie 
lolling  back  a  little  in  her  chair,  showed  all  the  pride  of  young 
and  fruitful  womanhood.  Her  eyes  were  absorbed  and  manger- 
worshipping,  her  face  ruddy  with  health,  her  breasts  large  and 
sweet  with  milk.  Joanna,  as  she  rather  painfully  spoke, 
leaned  forward — her  elbows  on  the  table  and  the  tips  of  her 
fingers  pressed  against  her  temples  as  if  the  pulse  there  needed 
protection.  And  though  she  still  looked  very  girlish,  she  was 
white-faced  and  harassed,  with  a  faint  shadow  under  each 
cheek-bone,  and  between  her  eyes  the  same  sad,  vertical  line 
of  perplexity  which  had  been  there  at  the  time  of  Mario's 
death. 

Georgie  broke  in  upon  her   halting  questions   with   such 

ready  and  emphatic  replies  that  Joanna  immediately  regretted 

'having  spoken.     Having  spoken  she  would  listen.     But  here 

was  no  help  to  be  had.     Georgie,  as  her  sister  now  realized, 

was  enclosed  and  impenetrably  protected  by  the  immediate 


OPENTHEDOOR  333 

experience  of  her  own  motherhood.  She  was  set  on  seeing 
in  their  mother's  death  both  release  and  happy  fulfilment. 
For  any  declarations  of  imperfections  in  this  world  she  was 
ready  with  assurances  of  perfections  in  the  next.  Above  all 
she  was  generously  up  in  arms  against  each  word  that  might 
be  construed  as  criticism  of  the  dead.  She  would  remember, 
she  insisted,  raising  her  voice,  none  but  the  good  and  beauti- 
ful things  about  her  parents:  because  only  beautiful  and  good 
things  were  real.  Faults  and  failures  were  best  forgotten  for 
the  simple  reason  that  they  were  of  no  vital  importance. 
They  had  no  lasting  truth.  They  were  but  passing  aberra- 
tions which,  if  we  had  more  faith,  we  should  not  even  see. 

Was  Georgie  right?  Joanna's  beseeching  eyes  rested  on 
her  as  she  discoursed  more  and  more  eloquently  upon  the  non- 
existence  of  evil.  And  the  younger  sister  felt  so  greatly  at  a 
disadvantage  that  she  was  almost  inclined  to  repudiate  her  own 
experience.  Was  truth  not  best  proved  by  such  a  union  of 
physical  health  and  spiritual  satisfaction?  Was  Georgie  not 
happier,  more  useful,  immeasurably  fuller  of  faith  and  cer- 
tainty than  she? 

Yet  for  all  that  she  could  only  look  blank  and  miserable, 
feeling  as  Georgie's  spirit  soared,  that  her  own  by  that  very 
action  was  being  thrust  further  into  darkness.  There  is  a 
buoyant  and  genuine  faith  which,  while  ostensibly  stimulating 
the  faith  of  others,  seems  only  to  be  able  to  swell  itself  at 
their  expense.  And  while  Georgie  glowed  and  spoke  of  their 
mother,  it  was  to  Joanna  as  if  the  coffin  lid  were  being  screwed 
down  afresh,  this  time  more  sacrilegiously  on  Juley's  soul. 

On  their  way  to  the  shops,  the  elder  sister,  warm  with  the 
consciousness  that  she  had  given  from  her  own  rich  store  to 
one  in  distress,  began  rosily  to  sketch  out  her  son's  future  and 
her  plans  for  his  upbringing. 

She  was,  she  declared,  ambitious  in  the  best  sense  of  the 
word.  In  baby  Sholto  the  fine  religious  motive  of  his  grand- 
parents was  to  be  mingled  with  his  father's  agnostic  humani- 
tarianism.  But  above  all  things  he  was  to  have  absolute  toler- 
ance inculcated.  From  an  early  age  he  should  develop 
grace  of  body  and  a  sense  of  rhythm  by  means  of  the  very 
latest  method,  the  lamentable  absence  of  which  in  Georgie's 
own  childhood  must  entirely  account  for  her  own  abortive 
musical  attainment.  (She  stated  now  by  the  light  of  this  new 
discovery  that  even  in  Dresden  the  teaching  had  been  com- 


334  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

pletely  at  fault.)  Sholto  was  never  to  be  punished  or  forced 
to  act  against  his  inclinations,  but  would  gain  his  education 
in  Nature's  own  way,  by  receiving  full  and  truthful  answers 
to  his  questions.  Georgie  herself  might  be  a  stupid  failure 
she  laughed  happily — in  everything  she  had  tried  save  mother- 
hood. But  what  did  that  matter?  All  that  mattered  was 
the  new  generation,  which  was  so  wonderfully  to  profit  by  our 
mistakes.  They  would  do,  and  do  far  better  all  that  we  had 
left  undone. 

It  would  have  surprised  Georgie  could  she  possibly  have 
known  how  every  word  of  cheer  she  uttered  struck  a  fresh 
blow  at  the  last  of  her  sister's  hopes.  Joanna  herself  did  not 
immediately  guess  the  collapse  of  that  hope.  At  first  she 
only  knew  that  as  she  listened  her  heart  grew  more  and  more 
like  lead  in  her  breast,  and  she  wondered  vaguely  why  this 
should  be  when  she  had  a  fair  degree  of  sympathy  with 
Georgie's  theories  of  education. 

But  in  Regent  Street,  while  they  were  buying  little  wincey 
dresses  and  woolly  jackets  and  boots  and  cunning  caps  for 
Baby,  it  broke  upon  her  so  suddenly  that  for  the  space  of  about 
a  minute  the  shop  and  all  it  contained  whirled  about  her 
like  a  tornado. 

Not  for  her  that  newly-springing  and  so  fair-seeming  hope 
that  by  her  own  achievement  of  motherhood  she  might  make 
good!  Not  any  longer  for  her!  Here  was  Georgie  turning 
each  purchase  over,  again  and  again  reminding  Joanna  of 
their  mother  as  she  tested  its  softness  against  her  cheek. 
Ah!  There  it  was!  Their  mother  had  done  this  for  them, 
and  her  mother  for  her,  always  with  the  same  eager  and 
touching  confidence  in  the  next  generation.  And  what  was 
to  come  of  it? 

Nothing! 

Nothing — because  it  was  based  on  a  lie.  Nothing — be- 
cause it  was  a  shirking  of  the  personal  issue.  Nothing — 
because  it  was  the  last,  most  exquisite  cowardice. 

Shaking  all  over,  Joanna  examined  some  white  lute  ribbon 
her  sister  had  put  just  then  into  her  hand,  and  she  gave  as 
her  opinion  that  it  would  be  quite  strong  enough  for  binding 
flannel  pilches. 

No!  If  the  children,  born  and  unborn  were  to  be  served 
fairly,  one  must  utter  clearly  and  fearlessly  one's  own  word 
of  truth  in  one's  own  lifetime.  And  against  this  utterance, 


OPEN   THE    DOOR  335 

hard  enough  in  itself,  the  whole  world  was  combined  in  the 
most  tyrannical  of  all  combinations,  the  combination  of  the 
past  with  the  future  generation.  What  a  plausible  and  cruel 
trick  was  there! 

It  gagged  one  (yes,  that  was  the  right  shade  of  blue  for  a 
sash,)  stifling,  if  it  could,  even  the  word  of  failure.  For  fail- 
ure might  be  one's  word.  All  could  not  blossom.  But  all 
could  reject  the  greater  disaster  of  unacknowledgement.  And 
this  was  what  Georgie  with  her  light  talk  of  failure  would 
not  do.  She  would  sooner  deny  meaning  to  their  mother's 
life  than  admit  its  failure.  She  would  deny  her  own  failure 
by  child-bearing  and  the  expedient  of  shifting  her  fulfilment 
from  her  personal  hands  to  the  impersonal  hands  of  the 
future.  And  this  she  would  call  by  the  name  of  faith.  All 
round  her  she  shed  easy  enthusiastic  denial,  and  Joanna 
shrank  back  forsaken  and  unsheltered.  Such  enthusiasm 
only  increased  the  menace  she  felt  everywhere.  By  the  time 
Sholto's  new  sash  was  measured  and  cut  her  disbelief  in  that 
fair  hope  by  which  she  had  lately  been  living  was  complete. 
It  was  finished  and  hard  in  the  darkness — a  jewel  of  unfaith. 

They  left  the  shop.  And  as  they  walked,  hugging  their 
parcels,  from  Piccadilly  Circus  to  their  station  in  Leicester 
Square,  she  looked  with  strange,  terror-stricken  eyes  at  the 
faces  of  the  passing  people.  There  were  the  satisfied,  solid 
ones,  the  flighty,  knowing  ones,  the  benevolent,  the  wicked, 
the  careless,  the  merely  anxious.  How  they  had  impressed 
her  once,  taken  as  a  whole:  and  never  so  much  as  when  her  own 
course  was  most  erratic!  Once  she  had  believed  that  some- 
how, between  them  all,  they  possessed  human  truth  and  know- 
ledge. To-day,  for  the  first  time  she  saw  them  as  a  flock  of 
blind  things,  each  one  trusting  implicitly,  as  she  had  done, 
in  the  corporate  wisdom  of  all  the  other  blind  ones.  .  .  . 
Louis  blind  .  .  .  her  mother  blind  ...  the  sadness  of  it  al- 
most killed  her 

"  Isn't  life  too  gorgeous,  ...  too  wonderful  .  .  .  ?  "  ex- 
claimed Georgie,  breaking  in  upon  her  thoughts  at  that  in- 
stant. And  in  her  exaltation  Georgie  shouted,  so  that  people 
turned  their  heads — some  smiling  indulgently,  some  with  con- 
tempt, others  with  a  peculiar  frown  of  anger  .  .  ."  And  I 
feel  the  whole  time  that  darling  Father  and  Mother,  united 
now,  are  watching  over  us,  rejoicing  so  lovingly  over  the  prog- 
ress of  the  next  generation.  Don't  you,  Joey  dear?  " 


336  OPEN   THE    DOOR 

The  other  did  not  at  once  reply.  With  the  bitterness  of 
spears  behind  her  eyeballs  she  saw  again  the  strange  indigna- 
tion in  her  mother's  dying  features.  Then — at  the  very  last, 
when  the  poor  tongue  could  only  babble  senselessly — had 
Juley  not  been  trying  perhaps  to  leave  her  special  word  of 
truth  with  her  children?  Anyhow  at  this  moment,  just  as 
the  sisters  were  passing  the  steps  of  the  Empire  Theatre, 
Joanna  came  by  the  absolute  knowledge  that  if  she  did  not 
give  Georgie  the  lie  here  and  now  their  mother's  prayers  had 
been  in  vain.  In  understanding  and  obedience  therefore,  she 
fell  at  her  mother's  feet.  She  would  do  it. 

She  was  afraid,  however,  horribly  timid  of  Georgie. 

"  I  don't  believe  a  single  word  of  all  you  have  said  to-day." 

Painfully  as  these  words  were  wrenched  out,  and  appalled 
as  Joanna  was  by  their  clumsiness  and  crudity,  they  were 
spoken  distinctly. 

But  the  elder  merely  looked  at  her  younger  sister,  first 
in  astonishment  at  this  unexpected  rudeness,  then,  seeing  the 
quivering  lips,  in  affectionate  pity. 

Later,  when  Georgie  began  soothingly  and  deliberately  to 
speak  of  trifles,  Joanna  knew  that  she  was  being  humored — 
probably  by  her  brother-in-law's  advice — as  one  in  a  morbid 
and  overwrought  condition. 


IV 

Joanna  knelt  by  the  hearth  in  the  archway  room,  and  piled 
up  her  fire  between  the  hobs  of  the  little  dog-grate  as  high  as 
she  dared.  It  was  bitter,  cold  January  weather,  and  she 
expected  Lawrence  Urquhart  in  the  course  of  the  evening. 

Since  Juley's  death  Joanna's  oft  fading  friendship  with 
Lawrence  had  put  forth  fresh  shoots.  On  her  return  from 
Glasgow  he  had  appeared  at  her  side  with  a  quiet  offering  of 
understanding  that  could  not  be  refused.  As  concerned  love 
she  believed  (sometimes  with  a  pang  of  which  she  was  ashamed) 
that  he  had  gone  from  her;  but  all  the  more  readily  did  she 
admit  and  even  cling  to  the  new  bond  he  had  unobtrusively 
created.  It  was  something  different  from  the  former  spas- 
modic attraction,  so  that  she  no  longer  scrupled  to  make  use 
of  his  steady  kindness  in  any  small  practical  ways  which 
might  relieve  her  extremity.  Also  he  had  become  an  ack- 
nowledged friend  of  the  family.  She  often  saw  him  now  at 


OPEN   THE    DOOR  337 

Georgie's  house  where  he  seemed  to  enjoy  talking  with  Max. 
And  more  rarely  he  would  come  to  Chapel  Court. 

Earlier  that  same  evening  Lawrence  had  been  called  to 
the  Bar.  And  at  his  invitation  Joanna  had  gone  to  see  the 
ceremony  in  Middle  Temple  Hall. 

Its  baldness  had  somewhat  disappointed  her.  From  her 
perch  in  the  high,  cramped  cage  of  the  gallery  she  had  watched 
the  little  doll-like  figures  advancing  in  wig  and  gown  to  sign 
the  roll  as  their  names  were  called,  and  she  had  hardly  been 
able  to  distinguish  her  friend  among  them. 
When  it  was  over,  and  she  had  squeezed  down  the  cork- 
screw staircase  in  a  press  of  womenfolk,  she  saw  that  Lawrence 
had  already  almost  made  his  way  to  her  through  the  crowd 
and  the  congratulations.  It  was  then  that  she  was  surprised 
by  quite  a  new  view  of  him.  The  sculptural  folds  of  the  gown 
gave  a  dignity  that  his  slight  figure  needed;  and  beneath  the 
formality  of  the  white  horsehair  wig,  all  his  features  were 
sharpened  into  a  more  insistent  yet  sensitive  maleness. 

This  she  had  seen,  or  rather  felt.  But  she  had  felt  also 
that  Lawrence  had  never  been  so  far  removed  from  her  as  at 
that  moment.  He  was  gone  utterly  into  the  unknowable 
world  of  men.  Nothing  of  her  world  could  touch  him.  She 
was  alien,  even  hostile  to  the  strongly  suppressed  excitement 
in  his  face  and  movements. 

For  a  minute  they  had  stood  talking  together.  The  Call  din- 
ner, Lawrence  said,  would  last  till  about  nine  o'clock,  after 
which  the  other  members  of  his  mess  would  want  to  go  to  a 
music  hall.  He  himself  didn't  much  like  the  idea — for  one 
thing  he  had  been  half-crazy  with  neuralgia  all  afternoon. 
Still  it  would  be  better  than  to  return  straight  from  the  din- 
ner to  his  rooms  in  Chancery  Lane.  And  when  Joanna  in 
commiseration  (she  too  had  suffered  of  late  from  neuralgia) 
suggested  phenacetin  with  tea  by  her  fireside  later  in  the  even- 
ing, he  thanked  her  gladly. 

So  she  had  stacked  up  the  fire  (for  though  her  room  with 
it  windows  vis-a-vis,  was  ideal  in  summer,  it  was  searched 
by  shrewd  draughts  during  the  winter) ;  and  she  had  lighted 
the  candles  on  the  mantel-piece,  and  drawn  the  curtains  close, 
and  set  out  the  tea-things  on  table  and  hob.  She  had  changed 
her  day  dress  too  for  a  thinner  one  of  black  silk  of  the  kind 
that  floats  and  does  not  rustle.  All  these  festive  and  hos- 
pitable things  she  had  done.  At  the  same  time  her  mood  was 


338  OPENTHEDOOR 

despondent,  and  she  dully  regretted  having  asked  Lawrence 
at  all. 

When  ten  o'clock  came,  however  (it  had  been  six  when  she 
left  the  Temple),  and  there  was  still  not  a  sign  of  her  visitor, 
her  depression  showed  no  lifting  tendency.  It  was  indeed 
considerably  increased.  A  further  restless  quarter  of  an  hour 
passed  and  she  could  settle  to  nothing.  She  had  just  made  up 
her  mind  to  go  to  bed,  and  was  in  the  act  of  blowing  out 
the  first  candle,  when  she  heard  the  belated  steps  of  Lawrence 
passing  under  the  archway. 

Was  it  the  frost,  she  wondered  when  he  came  in,  that  had 
given  him  such  a  cheerful,  unusual  starriness?  As  they  shook 
hands  she  realized  that  he  was  for  once  quite  divested  of  his 
shyness,  and  so  seemed  other  than  himself. 

While  she  busied  herself  with  the  tea,  which  she  was  making 
after  the  Russian  fashion  in  tumblers  with  slices  of  lemon, 
Lawrence  sat  down  and  passed  his  hand  over  his  hair  as  if  he 
feared  it  might  be  disordered.  But  it  was  perfectly  smooth, 
reflecting  the  candle-light  almost  as  well  as  the  polished  stove. 

"  How  is  you  neuralgia?  "  asked  Joanna  observing  the 
action  but  mistaking  its  motive. 

"  My  neuralgia?  "  He  repeated  the  question  as  if  at  a  loss 
for  the  moment.  "  .  .  .  O!  It's  gone,  thank  you.  .  .  . 
quite  better  ...  I  had  forgotten  about  it." 

He  refused  the  tabloids  which  she  had  laid  ready  for  him, 
but  drank  her  tea  thirstily. 

"  It  was  good  of  you  to  ask  me,"  he  said  happily,  pushing 
his  second  empty  glass  aside,  and  leaning  back  in  a  posture 
of  greater  physical  unconsciousness  than  was  usual  with  him. 
"...  I'm  afraid  I'm  rather  late,  but  it  was  impossible  to 
get  away  sooner.  Call  dinners  are  long  affairs." 

"  You  were  only  to  come  if  you  felt  inclined,"  Joanna 
reminded  him.  "  I  had  almost  given  you  up,  and  was  going 
to  bed." 

"  I  wanted  to  come,  you  stupid,"  he  retorted  in  calm  good 
humor,  arid  clearly  without  the  slightest  consciousness  of 
rudeness.  "  I'm  glad  wou  didn't  quite  give  me  up,"  he  con- 
tinued not  noticing  her  look.  "...  It's  something  not  quite 
to  be  given  up:  isn't  it?  " 

As  he  seemed  brightly  unabashed  to  be  waiting  for  an  an- 
swer, Joanna  murmured  in  a  neutral  voice  that  she  didn't 


OPENTHEDOOR  339 

know.  It  had  struck  her  for  the  first  time  that  perhaps  he 
had  drunk  too  much  at  dinner.  This  would  account  for  the 
lyrical  quality  in  his  appearance. 

"  You  are  cheerful  to-night,"  she  said,  staring  at  the  flame  of 
a  candle  she  was  snuffing.  The  room  was  lighted  only  by 
candles  and  by  the  splendid,  leaping  glow  of  the  fire. 

Lawrence  might  well  have  been  warned  by  her  tone;  but 
he  merely  recrossed  his  feet  and  looked  more  cheerful  still. 

"I  am,"  he  returned.  "Why  shouldn't  I  be?  I've  had 
a  good  dinner.  I'll  never  have  to  go  in  for  another  examina- 
tion in  my  life.  It's  a  pleasure  to  me  to  sit  here  by  your 
fire  with  you.  Why  shouldn't  I  be  cheerful?  " 

"  No  reason,"  admitted  Joanna.  And  having  trimmed  all 
four  of  her  wicks  on  the  mantel-piece,  she  sat  down  aga,in  and 
leaned  her  head  back  against  her  chair. 

At  that  ever  so  slight  but  desolate  movement  Lawrence 
changed  his  own  attitude.  Now  he  bent  forward  resting  his 
elbows  on  his  knees. 

"  But  you  aren't,"  he  said.  "  .  .  .  I'm  afraid  you're  sad. 
It  was  all  the  kinder  of  you  to  ask  me  this  evening.  I  wish  I 
could  cheer  you  up.  Won't  you  tell  me  what  troubles  you 
so?" 

Complete  silence  and  stillness  were  the  only  reply. 

The  young  man  looked  his  fill  at  the  heart-breaking  shape 
opposite — apparently  so  intimate  in  the  firelight,  yet  really 
so  far  out  of  his  reach — at  the  dear  brown  head  outlined 
against  the  linen  chair-back,  at  the  disconsolate  hands  folded 
languidly  in  her  lap.  And  though  his  immediate  feeling  was 
one  of  concern  for  her,  he  savored  at  that  moment  both 
her  soft  dejection  and  her  damnable  obstinacy. 

"  Are  you  grieving  very  much  for  your  mother  still?  "  he 
asked,  kindly. 

His  beloved  stirred  slightly  and  looked  at  him. 

"  It  isn't  exactly  grieving  for  her,"  she  made  answer.  "  I'm 
glad  for  her  and  for  myself  that  she's  dead.  No.  It's  that 
everything  else  seems  to  have  collapsed  with  her." 

"  Perhaps  that's  a  good  thing,"  said  Lawrence  after  a  few 
moments.  "  I  can't  help  thinking  it  is." 

Joanna's  languor  vanished  as  she  sat  up  in  her  place.  It 
was  not  the  first  time  Lawrence  had  thus  disturbed  and  upset 
her  all  of  a  sudden. 


340  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

"  It's  all  very  well  for  you,"  she  exlaimed  resentfully. 

"Why  all  very  well?  I  lost  my  mother  too,"  he  returned 
almost  roughly. 

"I  know.     But     ...  " 

"  And  I'll  tell  you  what,"  he  interrupted  her  with  ve- 
hemence, using  strangly  enough  a  phrase  which  Joanna  had 
long  ago  come  to  associate  with  Louis — ".  .  .  I  loved  her. 
But  I  never  knew  till  she  was  dead  what  an  injury  she  had 
done  me.  And  I  couldn't  forgive  her.  I  don't  know  if  I 
forgive  her  now.  She  had  drained  me  ...  all  my  life  she 
had  drained  me  ...  I  can't  think  of  any  other  word  .  .  . 
of  my  manhood  till  it  was  almost  gone.  She  lost  me  you. 
Don't  speak.  I  know  what  I  am  talking  about.  She  lost 
me  you.  You  did  right  not  to  take  me  then.  I  doubt  whether 
even  you  could  have  saved  me.  I  had  to  have  everything 
collapse  round  me  too.  You  look  doubtful.  I  tell  you  it 
was  so.  Carl  could  tell  you." 

"  Still  ..."  Joanna  persisted,  after  a  short,  astonished 
pause.  "  You  had  your  world  of  men  to  fly  to,  and  you  found 
it  solid.  That  seems  always  left  to  a  man  .  .  .  what  you 
said  once  about  being  in  the  stream  of  things.  Look  at 
you  to-night.  You  are  quite  happy.  But  what  you  have 
wouldn't  satisfy  me." 

"  Quite  happy,  am  I?  "  asked  Lawrence,  appearing  to  ex- 
amine the  backs  of  his  finger-nails  with  the  greatest  atten- 
tion. 

"  You  seem  to  be.  A  minute  ago  you  said  you  were,  didn't 
you?  " 

He  raised  his  eyes  at  this.  "  I  said  no  such  thing.  I 
said  cheerful." 

"  I'm  sorry.     Is  there  so  much  difference  in  your  case?  " 

With  a  violent  gesture  of  his  right  hand,  Lawrence  jumped 
to  his  feet. 

"  Why  are  you  so  hateful  to  me?  "  he  demanded — "  so 
perfectly  brutal  and  hateful?  You  know — no  one  better — 
that  I  need  you.  .  .  .  Not  for  happiness  .  .  .  happiness  be 
damned  .  .  .  but  just  for  life.  Yet  you  shut  me  out;  and 
are  vile  to  me  into  the  bargain.  You  talk  about  the  world 
of  men.  Don't  you  know  it's  only  a  makeshift  without  the 
other  you  won't  give  me?  " 

"  I  can't  give  what's  not  in  my  power." 

"  Ah!     There  you  are.    You  can't  give.    No.    I  ought  not 


OPENTHEDOOR  341 

to  have  asked  you  to  give.  You're  much  too  fond  of  giving 
Joanna:  and  your  kind  of  giving,  if  you  only  knew,  is  sheer 
robbery.  Give,  give,  give — to  the  poor  man,  when  in  reality 
it  all  goes  to  feed  your  own  egoism.  You  are  all  self-will. 
Try  to  take  from  a  man  for  a  change.  Then  perhaps  you 
will  learn  really  to  give.  Carl  was  right  in  what  he  used  to 
say  of  you." 

"  What  did  he  say?  " 

"  He  said  that  in  love  you  were  like  ..."  Lawrence  con- 
sidered a  moment.  ".  .  .  Carl's  way  of  talking  is  apt 
to  sound  rude  to  anyone  else's  mouth." 

"  Never  mind,  what  did  he  say?  "  Joanna  insisted. 

"  He  said  you  were  like  a  clod  of  earth  trying  to  give  itself 
to  a  seed,  by  shoving  itself  inside  the  husk.  I  believe  myself," 
added  Lawrence  with  growing  animation,  "  that  you  work  with 
all  your  strength  for  the  very  opposite  of  your  nature's 
true  desire." 

"  So  I'm  a  clod,  am  I?  "  asked  Joanna,  her  eyes  dancing 
with  spite.  "  Once  I  was  a  juggler.  Now  I'm  a  clod.  Shall 
I  tell  you  what  you  are?  " 

"If  you  like." 

"  You  are  .  .  .  YouVe  been  drinking  too  much." 

11  True.    But  I  am  not  drunk." 

"  Perhaps  not.  I  didn't  say  so."  Joanna  spoke  coldly. 
Her  voice  seemed  to  be  holding  her  skirts  round  her  as  if  they 
might  touch  him. 

"  I  shouldn't  have  come  here  if  I  had  been  drunk.  You 
know  that,"  said  Lawrence.  "  I  did  feel  braver  than  usual, 
and  thought  it  would  be  good  to  be  with  you  feeling  brave 
for  once.  Now  I've  begun,  I  may  as  well  finish  ...  I  dare- 
say that's  nonsense  about  the  clod — though  remember  that 
for  the  seed  the  clod  has  all  the  sky  in  it,  and  the  rain  and  sun 
and  sea  and  wind  as  well  as  the  earth.  .  .  .  Images,  though,  are 
apt  to  be  misleading.  Who  knows?  Perhaps  you  are  the 
seed  and  I  the  clod.  I  daresay.  What  I'm  certain  of,  more 
certain  than  I  ever  was  before,  is  that  I  need  you.  I  need  to 
hide  myself  and  to  lose  myself  in  you.  If  you  knew  what  my 
life  is  like  these  days!  All  that  can  be  said  is  that  I  have  the 
grace  to  be  sure  it  isn't  life.  And  I  do  believe  you  need  me  too. 
My  poor,  hopeless  pet!  .  .  .  Let  me  call  you  that  this  once 
...  If  you  were  getting  on  well  without  me,  I  wouldn't 
say  a  word.  But  you  aren't  getting  on." 


342  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

"  Whether  I'm  getting  on  or  not  doesn't  help  in  this." 

"  Why  not?    It  should." 

"  I  love  someone  else.  You  see  it's  no  use.  And  you  knew 
it  before.  Carl  must  have  .  .  ." 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  he  interrupted  doggedly. 

"  What  don't  you  believe?  " 

"  That  you  know  anything  whatever  about  love  .  .  .  yet." 
She  turned  from  him.  "  Perhaps  that  can  only  be  proved 
by  my  faithfulness,"  she  murmured — "  and  it  shall  be." 

Lawrence  groaned. 

"  Joanna,  you  are  such  a  fool,  I  almost  wish  I  didn't  love 
you." 

She  pondered  a  moment.    Then — 

"  You  would  soon  stop  loving  me  if  you  knew  the  kind  of 
person  I  am,"  she  declared.  And  to  Lawrence's  amazement 
she  suddenly  smiled  as  she  spoke. 

"  Why?   What  do  you  mean,"  he  asked. 

"  I'm  really  bad,"  she  said,  a  little  more  seriously  but  still 
with  a  peculiar,  ungovernable  flippancy. 

"  How  bad  are  you?  " 

"  Just  bad." 

"Tell  me." 

She  paused  a  moment;  and  then  looking  steadily  away  from 
him,  spoke  in  a  different,  quiet  voice. 

"  So  bad  that  I  can  be  attracted  by  men  I  don't  love  at 
all." 

It  was  the  man's  turn  to  smile  now.  But  Joanna  did  not 
see  him. 

"  Who  says  that's  bad?  "  he  asked. 

"  Everbody — in  a  woman." 

"  Sometimes,"  said  Lawrence,  all  the  lines  of  his  body 
expressing  relief  from  strain — "  .  .  .  sometimes  you  shock 
me.  You  have  always  seemed  so  complete  to  me  ...  so 
much  a  woman  .  .  .  and  then  you  say  a  thing  like  that, 
which  one  would  think  could  only  come  from  a  schoolgirl." 

He  waited,  but  there  was  no  answering  smile  on  Joanna's 
face.  Instead  a  quiver  passed  over  it,  and  the  bright  color 
that  had  swept  into  her  cheeks,  ebbed  quickly  under  his  eye. 

Would  he  never  understand  what  she  was  trying  to  say? 

"  I  should  have  said  ..."  she  persevered  clutching  all 
her  courage  (and  now  indeed  she  was  cruel  in  all  conscience: 
now  indeed  she  chose  her  words  with  merciless  directness) 


OPEN   THE    DOOR  343 

— "  ...  I  should  have  said  that  though  I  belong  to  one  man, 
and  always  must  belong  to  him,  I'm  capable  of  feeling  strongly 
attracted  by  others." 

From  the  first  word  of  this  speech  she  had  kept  her  eyes 
immovably  fixed  upon  Lawrence's  which  at  the  moment  were 
intently  regarding  the  flame  of  one  of  the  candles.  But  a 
minute  before,  he  had  taken  the  candle-stick  in  his  hand,  and 
with  a  match  had  been  kneading  the  rim  of  the  hot  wax  into  a 
scalloped  frill  all  round.  The  small,  erect  flame  illumined  the 
irises  of  his  eyes.  Joanna  could  see  how  surprisingly  light  they 
were  in  color — like  peaty  pools.  She  could  even  see  '3 
darker  flecks  in  the  iris,  which  made  her  think  of  trout  ..  j. 
burn.  And  not  a  flicker  of  the  eyelids  could  have  escaped  her 
vigilance. 

But  she  had  said  her  say,  and  there  had  not  been  the  faintest 
tremor.  The  hand  which  had  been  wielding  the  match  be- 
came perfectly  still.  That  was  all.  The  eyes  and  face, 
still  already,  became  stillness  incarnate.  Then  he  put  the 
candle-stick  back  in  its  place,  and  stopped  so  that  his  face 
was  hidden.  He  stopped  ostensibly  that  he  might  throw 
into  the  fire  the  match  that  had  dropped  from  his  fingers. 

The  instant  she  had  spoken,  Joanna  felt  happier.  Law- 
rence's stillness  was  too  extreme  to  deceive  her.  She  knew 
by  it  for  certain  that  her  disclosure  had  been  a  disclosure 
indeed,  and  that  it  had  hurt  him.  All  the  more  had  she  been 
all  this  time  to  blame. 

Now  that  was  said  which  should  in  fairness  have  been  said 
long  ago.  It  was  too  bad  that  he  should  suffer.  But  she  was 
thankful  that  he  could  take  it  like  a  man.  Suppose  he  had 
winced  and  wept  and  reproached  her,  as  on  that  last  ride? 

When  he  faced  her  again,  his  lips  shook  but  his  words  came 
composedly  enough. 

"  I  take  back  what  I  said  about  your  needing  me,"  he  said 
slowly.  "  I  was  wrong  seemingly.  Please  be  generous  and 
put  it  down  to  the  fact  that  I  had  been  drinking  more  than 
was  good  for  me.  I  should  perhaps  have  been  wiser  not  to 
have  come  to-night." 

"  Perhaps.  .  .  .  Still  I  wanted  you  to  know.  ..."  Joanna's 
gaze  was  almost  fawning  on  him  now  for  a  kind  look,  though, 
to  do  her  justice,  there  was  no  appeal  in  her  detached  voice. 
It  merely  served  her  in  the  making  of  a  true  statement. 

"  If  you  are  satisfied,  that's  something,"  said  Lawrence, 


344  OPEN   THE    DOOR 

his  eyes  flicking  her  like  a  whip.  "  I  think  I'll  wend  my  way 
homeward  now,"  he  continued.  "  It  must  be  late"  (Even  as 
he  spoke,  he  wondered  at  the  absurdity  of  his  using  that 
absurd  phrase  now  for  the  first  time  since  his  schooldays. 
Why  "  wend  his  way  "  to-night?) 

'•  My  watch  has  stopped,"  Joanna  said  helplessly  looking 
at  her  wrist.  "  But  it's  only  about  eleven  I  believe.  The 
clock  on  the  mantelpiece  is  slow." 

He  studied  his  own  watch  as  if  the  time  were  a  matter  of 
real  importance  to  him.  "  Five  minutes  to  eleven,  I  make  it." 

As  they  said  good-night,  both  their  voices  plodded  along 
the  dead  level  of  exhaustion. 

But  Joanna  must  go  down  the  dark  little  staircase  with 
her  guest  to  see  him  off.  Just  as  if  their  evening  had  been  of 
the  happiest  kind,  she  must  open  the  door  for  him  and  warn 
him  of  the  three  crooked  steps.  There  was  a  moon  somewhere 
low  in  the  sky  behind  the  tall  houses,  but  the  court  was  full 
of  treacherous  shadows. 

Lawrence  lost  no  time  in  parting  from  her.  He  made 
nothing  of  the  steps.  And  almost  before  she  realized  he 
was  gone,  she  heard  the  echo  of  his  quick  retreating  tread. 

When  that  had  quite  died  away  in  the  street  outside,  she 
went  forlornly  up  to  her  bedroom  as  one  who  has  lost  a 
friend.  An  old-fashioned  expression  of  her  mother's  came 
appositely  into  her  mind.  She  felt,  she  told  herself,  "  like 
a  knotless  thread." 


For  the  next  three  months  and  more,  Lawrence  was  not 
seen  at  Chapel  Court.  Even  to  the  Garden  Suburb  he  no  longer 
came.  A  single  accidental  meeting  which  Joanna  had  with 
him  about  six  weeks  after  that  evening  in  January,  served 
only  to  strengthen  her  conclusion  that  he  had  dropped  out 
of  her  life. 

It  happened  that  Ollie's  mother,  Mrs.  Garland,  was  ill  in 
bed,  and  had  asked  Joanna  to  deliver  some  copy  for  her  in 
Fleet  Street.  Until  she  was  at  the  very  door  of  the  office, 
Joanna  had  not  known  that  Mrs.  Garland's  paper  occupied 
the  same  building  as  the  Sunday  Budget  for  which  Lawrence 
worked.  Still  it  seemed  improbable  that  she  would  come 
across  him.  He  was  not  likely  to  be  there.  And  in  any 
case  the  Budget  office  was  on  the  third  floor,  while  her  errand 


OPENTHEDOOR  345 

was  on  the  second.  She  was  taken  aback  when,  immediately 
after  her  handing  Mrs.  Garland's  copy  to  the  small  imp 
at  that  moment  in  charge  of  the  tape  room,  an  inner,  glass 
door  was  opened,  and  laughing  over  some  unknown  jest,  two 
men  came  out,  one  of  the  two  being  Lawrence. 

With  a  sudden  scarlet  in  her  cheeks,  Joanna  bowed  uncer- 
tainly. But  if  Lawrence  too  was  taken  at  a  disadvantage 
he  hardly  showed  it.  Leaving  the  editor  to  melt  back  into 
his  glass  room,  he  came  across  to  her,  exhibited  ordinary, 
friendly  surprise  at  her  presence,  heard  the  reason  of  it, 
chatted  a  minute  or  two  with  cool  detachment,  and  as  soon  as 
he  could  do  so  politely,  ran  back  to  remind  the  man  within  of 
some  forgotten  matter. 

As  Joanna  descended  the  stairs  she  again  heard  his  voice 
and  the  other's  raised  in  exclusive  mirth.  She  had  hardly 
recognized  her  lost  friend  in  this  easy,  keen,  absorbed  young 
man.  Indeed  and  indeed  men  were  to  be  envied  in  their 
work.  Lawrence  might  protest  as  he  liked  that  there  was 
no  satisfaction  in  it.  No  doubt  while  he  was  with  her  he 
had  felt  it  so.  But  his  face,  both  now  and  on  Call  night  had 
told  a  different  story. 

On  her  way  home  she  was  more  than  ever  convinced  that 
she  had  at  last  made  a  clean  break  between  herself  and  Law- 
rence. Further  she  felt  sure  that  Lawrence  was  not  averse 
to  her  knowing  it. 

VI 

So  she  went  on  with  the  bitter  and  deathly  course  which 
accorded  with  her  ideas  of  faithfulness.  She  was  upheld  in 
it  by  her  one  conscious  belief — the  belief  that  she  loved  Louis. 

When,  one  morning  in  May,  Mr.  Moon  summoned  her  to 
answer  a  telephone  call  in  the  shop  below,  Joanna  guessed 
it  must  be  from  Louis.  His  way  was  to  telephone  rather 
than  to  write,  and  it  was  five  days  since  she  had  seen  him. 
Always  at  the  end  of  three  days  they  were  both  restless  for 
sight  and  sound  of  each  other. 

She  ran  downstairs,  eager  and  trembling  for  his  message  as 
ever. 

Xo  sooner  had  she  heard  it  than  the  familiar  office,  with  its 
urns  and  its  samples  of  stone  and  wood,  spun  darkly  round 
her,  and  she  had  to  hang  her  head  for  faintness. 

Louis  was  going  to  Edinburgh  next  day.     And  he  wanted 


346  OPEN   THE    DOOR 

her  to  come  with  him.  Except  for  a  peculiar,  almost  angry 
note  in  his  voice,  he  might  have  been  proposing  that  she 
should  take  a  walk  with  him  in  the  Park.  Yet  this  was  the 
first  time  he  had  ever  asked  her  to  go  away  with  him.  Both 
of  them  hitherto  had  fought  shy  of  anything  suggestive  of  the 
ordinary  intrigue.  Wherever  Joanna  was  Louis  had  known 
he  could  come  without  fear  or  shame.  And  there  had  been 
their  country  walks.  But  for  anything  else,  Joanna  had 
instinctively  waited  till  their  going  should  be  a  real  departure. 
Tacitly  Louis  had  understood  this  and  had  acquiesced.  They 
had  let  slip  many  opportunities. 

But  here  was  he  all  of  a  sudden  asking  her  to  take  a  real 
journey  with  him,  and  at  the  very  peremptoriness  of  the  re- 
quest her  heart  cried  out  in  hope.  He  could  not  well  tell 
her  so  much  in  words  at  this  moment,  but  might  not  this  be 
his  way  of  coming  to  what  she  longed  and  lived  for? 

Half  fainting  she  said  she  would  go;  and  they  made  arrange- 
ments for  meeting.  Baldly  they  fixed  time  and  place.  By 
not  a  word  did  they  betray  the  unusual  nature  of  their  decision. 

It  was  her  lover's  plan  for  the  next  morning  that  she  should 
take  an  early  train  as  far  as  Peterborough,  and  there  wait  for 
the  two  o'clock  express  by  which  he  was  travelling.  From 
then  on,  they  would  be  safe.  In  Edinburgh  the  following  day 
he  would  hurry  over  the  event  which  was  taking  him  North 
• — the  unveiling  of  some  panels  of  his,  in  which  from  their 
earliest  drawings  Joanna  had  taken  a  lively  interest.  And 
after  that  he  would  be  free.  They  could  go  anywhere,  do 
anything,  be  all  the  time  together. 

As  she  packed  her  travelling-case,  Joanna  had  to  fight  down 
a  certain  nausea  by  pretending  to  herself  that  the  whole  thing 
was  an  adventure,  thrilling  and  sweet,  above  all  rather  humorous 
and  dashing.  That  she  and  Louis  should  go  together  to  Edin- 
burgh of  all  places!  Was  there  not  a  nice  irony  in  that —  a 
delightful  stroke  of  defiance? 

But  really,  from  the  moment  of  agreement,  her  heart  was 
sick  with  apprehension.  The  crisis  of  their  loves  was  at  hand. 
She  knew  it.  And  she  was  certain  that  Louis  also  knew. 

Vn 

At  Peterborough  she  had  four  hours  to  wait  for  the  train 
that  was  to  bring  Louis. 

She  tried  to  eat,  but  could  not,  so  left  the  station. 


OPEN   THE    DOOR  347 

Walking  aimlessly  in  the  unknown  streets  she  found  herself 
looking  about  her  and  listening,  like  one  who  has  never  looked 
or  listened  before.  The  experience  of  sight  was  intense,  almost 
like  pain;  and  each  sound  came  unprotected  to  her  ears  as  if 
thick  veils  had  been  drawn  away  between  her  and  the  world. 
Even  the  movements  of  people,  the  grouping  of  buildings, 
the  ways  in  which  the  clouds  were  arranged,  were  like  words 
or  sentences  piercingly  spoken.  Arrowy  voices  were  aimed 
at  her  from  all  sides.  She  was  a  frail,  silken  banner,  riddled 
and  tattered  by  well  directed  shafts.  She  was  more  alive  to 
the  world  of  sense  than  would  long  be  endurable. 

Coming  to  a  bridge,  she  stood  leaning  over  the  parapet 
as  if  to  find  a  refuge  in  the  steadiness,  the  simplicity,  of  flowing 
water.  The  air  was  laden  with  sun  and  dust.  The  leaden 
sunshine  weighed  everything  down.  Only  on  the  water  was 
it  pointed  with  silver.  From  an  opening  far  up  in  a  flour  mill, 
men  were  loading  a  barge  with  sacks.  The  sacks  were  sent 
flying  down  two  very  long  planks  which,  bending  under  their 
own  slim  weight,  reached  from  the  high  doorway  to  the  deck 
of  the  barge. 

When  she  had  gazed  a  while,  still  in  that  strange  helplessness 
of  receptivity,  one  of  the  men  who  was  in  the  barge  helping 
to  pile  up  the  sacks  noticed  her.  He  rubbed  the  sweat  from 
his  forehead  with  his  arm,  smiling  intently  up  at  her;  and 
must  have  said  a  word  to  his  mates,  for  they  too  looked  up 
amid  their  cloud  of  flour  and  stopped  working  for  a  moment. 

And  Joanna,  before  she  drifted  on,  treasured  their  gazes 
like  a  farewell.  A  dreadful  sense  of  approaching  death  was 
upon  her.  She  was  looking  her  last  on  the  world  in  which  she 
had  lived  till  now — was  severing  all  human  contacts  one  by 
one.  Already  her  body  seemed  near  to  dissolution. 

In  absolute  terror  she  entered  a  church  and  knelt  down. 
She  had  not  even  realized  that  it  was  the  cathedral.  Mechani- 
cal with  fear,  she  began  to  repeat  the  prayers  of  childhood. 
"  This  night  I  lay  me  .  .  ."  she  began:  then  prayed  for  her 
mother,  for  Georgie,  Linnet  and  Sholto.  "  Bless  poor  Mario, 
bless  my  Louis,  bless  Lawrence.  .  .  .  Help  me  to  be  good!  " 
she  murmured  swiftly.  And  so  that  she  might  include  enemies 
in  her  blessing,  she  tried  to  bring  in  Mrs.  Fender's  name. 
"  May  we  all  have  what  is  best  for  our  souls  and  bodies,"  she 
concluded,  using  a  phrase  she  had  heard  a  thousand  times  on 
her  mother's  lips. 


348  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

Suddenly  then,  as  she  cowered  in  the  dark  and  lofty  cathe- 
dral, it  seemed  to  Joanna  that  she  saw  the  Lord  on  His  throne. 
And  that  He  was  preparing  to  answer  her  prayer  for  herself, 
not  with  His  smile  but  with  His  sword.  She  could  feel  before- 
hand the  stab  that  would  destroy  her.  But  she  would  not 
shrink.  Rather  would  she  lift  up  her  breast  to  receive  it. 
If  it  was  God's  will  to  slay  her,  then  must  she  be  slain.  Xot 
for  nothing  was  she  Juley  Erskine's  daughter. 

vn 

She  had  been  more  than  half  an  hour  in  the  station  when 
the  train  from  London  came  in. 

At  the  sight  of  her  lover  leaning  from  the  carriage  window 
looking  out  for  her,  all  her  fears,  all  she  had  just  gone  through, 
became  absurd.  Here  was  the  old  solid  world  claiming  her. 
She  could  still  cling  to  it.  She  rushed  forward,  and  Louis 
came  in  his  rather  fussy  way  to  meet  her. 

But  when  she  had  taken  her  place  beside  him,  and  the 
crowded  journey  northward  was  resumed,  Joanna  knew  that 
she  would  have  given  anything  not  to  have  come. 

It  was  not  because  there  were  other  people  in  their  compart- 
ment— a  man  and  two  women.  It  was  not  because  the  women, 
who  were  evidently  well  disposed  toward  Louis,  looked  distrust- 
fully at  the  newcomer.  Joanna  would  not  have  minded  these 
things  if  only  Louis  had  stood  by  her.  She  remembered  the 
many  happy  hours  they  had  spent  in  trains,  going  out  to 
country  places  for  their  walks:  and  some  of  the  most  memor- 
able had  been  merely  enhanced  by  the  presence  of  other  people 
as  by  every  other  fetter  of  circumstance.  Louis  when  he 
wished  could  give  her  such  a  sense  of  the  secret  warmth 
between  them,  that  the  very  disadvantages  which  might 
most  easily  have  blown  upon  their  pleasure  added  a  zest. 

Why  then  to-day,  after  the  first  flush  of  greeting,  should  he 
lapse  away  from  her  in  a  strange,  hostile  exhaustion?  The 
unexpectedness  of  it  paralyzed  her.  His  looks  were  like  axes 
that  had  been  sharpened  in  secret  to  sever  the  bond  between 
them.  And  he  left  her  quite  exposed  to  the  disapproval  and 
curiosity  of  these  onlookers.  Was  it  for  this  that  he  had 
asked  her  to  come  away  with  him? 

It  would  have  helped  her  somewhat  if  she  could  have  accused 
him  simply.  But  beyond  all  easy  argument  she  knew  that 
Louis  no  less  than  she  was  taken  unaware.  It  was  one  of  these 


OPEN   THE   DOOR  349 

things,  by  no  means  simple  in  themselves,  which  happen  sud- 
denly and,  as  it  were,  involuntarily.  Louis,  she  was  positive, 
had  invited  her  in  good  faith.  But  somewhere  a  spring  had 
clicked,  and  here  they  were,  both  in  some  cruel  trap,  baffling 
to  him  as  to  her. 

For  a  while  he  made  conversation.  He  had  been  up  half 
the  night,  he  told  her,  working  at  a  belated  drawing  so  that 
it  might  be  in  the  publisher's  hands  that  day.  Up  half  the 
night  .  .  .  and  yet  had  had  to  rise  early  this  morning  to  finish 
it  ...  such  a  brute  it  had  turned  out.  .  .  .  Now  he  was 
dead  tired.  Again  and  again  he  repeated  how  tired  he  was 
"  Dead  tired  .  .  .  down  and  out  ...  a  dead  beat  old  man. 
.  .  ."  His  reiteration  chilled  her.  For  he  did  not  want  sym- 
pathy. That  he  made  clear.  Persistently  he  used  his  tiredness 
not  to  draw  her  to  him  as  he  might  have  done,  but  to  push 
her  farther  and  farther  away.  That  he  was  very  tired 
she  pitifully  knew.  His  face  was  gray  and  lined  with 
weariness. 

Before  strangers  however  they  could  have  no  real  talk,  and 
presently  Louis  fell  asleep  in  his  corner.  Joanna  then  went 
out  into  the  corridor  and  stood  there  a  long  time,  seeing  the 
flying  landscape  through  sheets  of  tears. 

For  a  part  of  the  way  the  train  ran  beside  the  sea,  and  the 
tide  was  far  out,  leaving  bare  the  great,  clean  stretches  of  sand. 
The  tide — that  was  what  Louis  was  like  in  his  love!  The 
shoreward  waves  had  been  so  strong  that  she  had  not  realized 
the  ebb  of  the  whole  ocean  of  his  being.  He  was  too  old. 
He  had  said  it,  and  she  had  shrunk  from  it  with  closed  eyes. 
He  was  too  old — an  ebbing,  dying  man.  No  power  could 
alter  that  grievous,  icy  fact.  She  saw  that  now.  And  yet, 
and  yet — she  cried  out  that  she  loved  him.  If  he  would  but 
allow  her  to  share  in  this  death  of  his,  she  would  surely  go 
through  with  it.  She  loved  him  so  much.  So  much  did  she 
long  to  be  faithful. 

As  the  landscape  darkened,  however — the  tears  stiffening 
painfully  on  Joanna's  face — and  Louis  still  slept  on  in  uncon- 
sciousness, she  became  subject  for  a  time  to  less  exalted  feelings. 
What  right,  she  asked  herself  angrily  had  this  man  so  to 
humiliate  her?  He  need  not  have  suggested  her  coming  to-day. 
But  having  done  so,  whatever  his  feelings,  he  should  have  de- 
ferred this  treacherous  blow.  In  the  circumstances  it  was 
mean  and  shameful  of  him.  She  would  not  tamely  submit  to 


350  OPENTHEDOOR 

it.  And  she  actually  allowed  herself  to  be  beaten  up  into 
what  is  often  known  as  "  spirit,"  by  remembering  with  what 
difficulty  she  had  got  together  the  money  for  her  ticket. 

This  mood,  the  more  wretched  for  being  foreign  to  her 
nature,  was  aggravated  by  Louis's  behavior  in  the  restaurant 
car  during  dinner.  As  always  he  revived,  superficially  at 
least,  under  the  stimulus  of  food ;  but  on  this  occasion  whatever 
energy  he  thus  gained  was  vindictive.  Having  glanced  without 
remark  at  his  companion's  inflamed  eyes,  he  proceeded  to 
talk  with  a  certain  vivacity  of  their  fellow  travellers.  He 
pointed  out  the  extraordinary  likeness  between  the  man  in 
the  corner  and  a  bust  of  the  youthful  Nero  in  the  British 
Museum.  And  had  Joanna  noticed  the  clear-eyed,  pretty 
girl  who  had  sat  opposite  to  him? 

Joanna  had  of  course  noticed  her,  and  with  that  wistful 
admiration  we  accord,  when  deeply  harrowed  ourselves,  to 
one  who  is  as  yet  untouched  by  life.  The  girl  in  question  was 
merry,  quite  young,  and  of  a  type  essentially  English.  At  any 
other  time  Joanna  would  have  listened  equably  to  any  praise 
of  her.  But  to-day  there  was  an  element  in  Louis  which  made 
his  eulogy  of  this  other  unendurable.  As  clearly  as  his  weary 
glance  had  earlier  showed  Joanna  that  her  new  way  of  wearing 
her  hair  with  a  fringe  (impulsively  adopted  that  morning)  was 
distateful  to  him,  so  clearly  did  he  now  seize  upon  this  nice 
young  thing's  charm  as  an  instrument  of  repudiation.  At 
his  pointed  enthusiasm  Joanna  arose  from  her  untasted  din- 
ner, and  stumbled  along  the  cruelly  swaying  corridor  till  she 
reached  an  empty  compartment. 

Here  Louis  followed  her,  though  not  at  once.  He  was 
relieved  to  see  that  she  was  not  crying.  And  indeed  she 
had  been  struggling  hard  in  the  interval  to  gather  some 
steadiness. 

He  sat  down  opposite  to  her  without  a  word,  only  making 
a  warmer  gesture  than  he  had  yet  used  that  day,  as  he  bent 
forward  and  brushed  some  grits  from  her  skirts  with  his  bare 
hand. 

"  What's  wrong?  " 

"I  don't  know." 

It  was  wonderful  though  how  his  action  freed  her  from  all 
pettier  exasperation. 

"  Louis,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice  innocent  of  resentment — 
"  why  did  you  ask  me  to  come  to-day?  You  shouldn't  have 


OPENTHEDOOR  351 

asked  me.  You  needn't  have.  You  might  have  told  me  you 
had  changed  toward  me.  When  did  you  change?  " 

Louis  stirred  unhappily  before  speaking. 

"  But  I  haven't  changed  toward  you,"  he  replied  at  length. 
"  That  is,  not  that  I  know  of.  If  I've  changed  as  you  say, 
I've  changed  somehow  to  myself  rather  than  to  you.  I  don't 
myself  know  what  has  gone  wrong.  It's  true  something  seems 
to  have  broken  in  me — just  gone  phut.  ...  I  can't  explain." 

"  You  mean,  now?  "  Joanna  asked  in  mournful  wonder — 
"  All  of  a  sudden — ,  since  this  morning?  " 

"  I  have  told  you  I  don't  know!  "  He  was  becoming  restive 
again.  "  I  certainly  was  unaware  of  it  before.  You  must  know 
that.  ...  I  wouldn't  have  ...  as  I  say,  I  can't  explain 
it  to  myself.  I'ts  just  one  of  these  things  there's  apparently 
no  accounting  for  ...  there  seems  nothing  to  be  said.  .  .  ." 

Truly  there  seemed  nothing.  Or  if  a'fter  a  time  there  might 
have  seemed  something,  it  was  prevented  by  the  arrival  just 
then  from  dinner  of  the  rightful  occupants  of  the  compartment 
into  which  Joanna  had  drifted. 

She  and  Louis  had  no  choice  now  but  to  return  to  their 
own  carriage  where  the  youthful  Nero,  and  the  pretty  girl 
and  her  mamma  were  already  reinstalled.  And  before  many 
minutes  were  gone  Louis  lapsed  again  into  the  disheartening, 
jaded  sleep. 

IX 

They  stood  for  a  few  minutes  on  the  platform  at  Waverley 
Station,  chilled  and  uncertain.  Louis  had  already  told  her 
that  an  artist  friend  half  expected  him  for  the  night. 

"  You  had  better  go  to  him,"  said  Joanna  tonelessly.  "  I 
know  you  hate  hotels,  and  you  have  a  cold,  besides  being  so 
tired.  You  had  better  go  to  him,  Louis."  And  she  shivered 
in  the  draughty  place. 

Louis  too  was  miserably  chilled  after  his  cramped  doze  in 
the  train.  His  cold  felt  many  degrees  worse.  He  hesitated 
with  his  reply:  and  she  waited,  not  quite  hopeless  yet,  in 
spite  of  her  own  suggestion.  Was  it  possible  that  he  should 
leave  her  now?  Was  it  in  common  kindness  possible?  Yet 
she  saw  the  callousness  of  his  worn  and  clouded  face. 

"  But  what  about  you?  "  he  asked.  With  so  simple  a 
question  did  he  deal  out  death  to  her,  finally,  unmistakably. 
".  .  .  .  What  about  you?  "  He  repeated  stupidly. 


352  OPEN    THE   DOOR 

Joanna  received  the  wound  without  a  sign. 

"  I'll  be  all  right,"  she  heard  herself  say.  "  I  can  get  a 
room  at  the  station  hotel." 

She  remembered  once  seeing  hari-kari  enacted  in  a  Japan- 
ese play — remembered  the  actor's  queer  silence  when  the  dag- 
ger first  ran  into  his  body  up  to  the  hilt.  It  was  a  silence 
in  which  he  had  continued  his  beautifully  ordered  movements. 
Only  when  the  dagger  was  withdrawn,  had  he  lost  control 
and  expired  in  a  bubble  of  blood. 

Now  she  only  wanted  to  be  alone.  Louis  too,  she  could 
see,  was  longing  to  be  gone  from  her.  But  he  found  it  difficult 
to  move. 

"Joanna!  "  he  paid  her  his  tribute — "You  are  a  generous 
woman.  The  most  generous  I  ever  knew." 

At  that  a  smile  twisted  her  mouth  for  a  moment,  and  again 
they  were  standing,  looking  fixedly,  strangely  at  each  other. 
He  had  a  moment  of  cowardly  fondness,  and  took  her  limp 
hand.  "  After  four  to-morrow  I  should  be  free,"  he  said.  "  I'll 
call  or  send  a  message  the  instant  I  can.  I  wish  things  were 
different.  Do  you  see?  But,  my  child,"  he  continued  with 
a  violent  shudder,  "  the  draught  in  this  place!  It's  icy!  The 
old  man  will  drop  dead  in  a  minute.  There's  a  cab.  Hi! 
There!  I'll  be  off.  Till  to-morrow,  old  girl.  Take  care  of 
yourself." 

They  shook  hands  like  acquaintances.  Louis — comically, 
as  Joanna  had  to  think — lifting  his  hat.  She  saw  him  cross 
the  pavement  with  a,  touch  of  his  old  jauntiness,  and  get  into 
the  cab.  It  rumbled  away. 

She  walked  carefully  to  the  hotel.  Unless  she  walked  very 
carefully  she  must  surely  reel  or  fall  down.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  Louis  had  broken  her  right  across  with  his  hands.  It 
would  not  do  if  people  were  to  see  that  she  was  broken  right 
across.  She  must  keep  upright  till  she  got  into  a  place  by 
herself. 

But  even  when  the  hotel  attendant  had  left  her  alone  in  a 
great,  high,  inimical  box  of  a  bedroom,  she  continued  to  move 
with  circumspection.  When  she  unpacked  her  nightdress, 
she  noticed  an  odd  thing.  The  low  neck  was  threaded  with 
a  piece  of  mauve  ribbon  taken  from  one  of  her  mother's  funeral 
wreaths.  How  it  had  ever  come  to  be  there  she  could  not 
think.  She  must  have  used  it  unconsciously,  not  even  know- 


OPENTHEDOOR  353 

ing  that  she  possessed  it  though  now  she  recognized  it  at  once. 
She  let  it  be. 

All  night  she  lay  a  broken  thing  hearing  the  banging  and 
shunting  of  trains.  And  her  feet  were  like  stones.  Now  and 
again  a  kind  of  ague  took  her.  She  could  not  weep,  could 
not  think,  could  hardly  even  feel.  There  was  in  her  no  real 
anger  against  Louis.  The  waves  of  fury  that  overwhelmed 
her  from  time  to  time,  were  all  from  the  outside  and  inessen- 
tial? What  really  concerned  her  was  that  the  menace  of 
death  which  had  been  with  her  all  these  months  was  now  ful- 
filled in  her.  Louis  was  no  more  than  the  instrument  in  a 
proceeding  as  far  beyond  his  own  control  as  her. 

x 

Neither  then  nor  afterward*  was  Joanna  able  to  account 
for  her  actions  of  the  following  day.  They  seemed  merely 
automatic.  There  was  no  real  life  left  in  her. 

At  eight  in  the  morning,  having  dozed  a  very  little  during 
the  last  hour,  she  dressed  herself,  and  with  that  factitious 
access  of  spirits,  rather  lightheaded,  which  comes  to  some  peo- 
ole  as  one  of  the  phases  before  collapse,  she  paid  her  bill  and 
left  the  hotel.  Louis  would  send  his  message,  or  more  pro- 
bably would  come  himself.  And  he  would  find  her  gone. 
That  was  something. 

She  could  not  think  of  London,  however,  while  he  was  still 
in  Edinburgh.  So  she  walked  stupidly  about,  always  carrying 
with  her,  her  bag  which  grew  heavier  and  heavier. 

It  occurred  to  her  that  she  had  better  look  for  a  room. 
She  began  accordingly  to  make  inquiries  wherever  she  saw  a 
card  irr  a  window.  But  in  the  district  where  she  happened 
to  be  wandering,  lodgings  were  of  the  cheap,  theatrical  sort; 
and  she  fled  time  after  time  from  the  vision  of  a  sordid,  un- 
made bed,  and  an  empty  tumbler  of  the  night  before  on  a 
bed-side  table  covered  with  circular  stains. 

At  length,  returning  to  the  other  side  of  Princes  Street,  she 
found  what  she  sought  in  a  small  and  friendly  temperance 
hotel.  Here  she  dropped  her  bag  with  relief,  then  went  out, 
bought  a  bunch  of  wall-flowers — dark  red  and  yellow — which 
had  caught  her  eye  at  a  street  corner  earlier  and  put  them  in 
water  on  the  dressing  table  of  her  new  quarters.  A  passionate 
gratitade  welled  in  her  for  these  warm,  sweet  flowers  with  their 


354  OPENTHEDOOR 

homely  air.  They  were  her  only  friends,  and  she  wished  for 
no  others. 

At  luncheon  time  she  followed  the  general  drift  into  the 
coffee-room,  and  when  food  was  set  before  her  she  was  sur- 
prised to  find  she  could  not  eat.  She  was  more  than  surprised 
— she  was  suddenly  afraid.  She  began  to  fear — as  if  it  were 
something  quite  disjoined  from  herself — for  her  willing  body. 
But  though  she  tried  methodically,  her  gorge  rose  at  each 
mouthful  and  she  had  to  stop.  The  bill  of  fare  appalled  her — 
boiled  cod,  minced  "  collops,"  corn-flour  pudding.  She  wished 
there  were  some  food  she  had  never  yet  tasted — food  with  a 
new,  unearthly  flavor — food  ambrosial  that  would  melt 
into  her  dry,  bitter  mouth  without  effort. 

She  had  been  dimly  conscious  of  a  great  many  black  coats 
in  the  room  giving  the  place  an  atmosphere  that  was  both 
familiar  and  depressing.  Then  scraps  of  talk  came  to  her  from 
the  next  table  where  sat  a  frizzy-haired  young  minister.  He 
had  just  been  assuring  his  wife  that  they  were  in  ample  time 
for  their  train. 

"  I'm  sorry  to  miss  the  closing  address  to-night,"  he  went 
on.  "  I  doubt  we  won't  see  the  old  man  again  in  this  world." 

"  With  that  halo  of  snow-white  hair,  Dr.  Ranken  makes  a 
very  dignified  Moderator,"  said  the  wife. 

"  But,  frail,  frail,"  returned  the  husband.  "  It  is  a  marvel 
to  every  one  how  he  has  carried  through  the  ten  days." 

The  month  of  May!  Black-coated  figures  everywhere, 
chattering  cheerfully  like  a  colony  of  starlings!  Why  of 
course,  it  was  the  General  Assembly!  Not  since  the  year 
of  her  father's  death  had  the  General  Assembly  existed  for 
Joanna,  so  that  a  bewildering  cloud  of  reminiscence  was  evoked 
in  her  by  the  casual  discovery  that  it  was  even  now  in  progress, 
and  an  added  sharpness  was  given  to  memory  by  the  mention  of 
Dr.  Ranken's  name.  The  General  Assembly  and  Dr.  Ranken  as 
Moderator!  Looking  at  the  hearty  ministerial  feeders  around 
her,  Joanna  felt  more  than  ever  a  ghost. 

Within  the  next  half  hour  she  was  drawn  back  by  an  ob- 
stinate revival  of  hope  to  the  station  hotel.  Here  there  was 
a  telegram  for  her ;  and  she  was  further  informed  that  a  gentle- 
man had  telephoned  at  breakfast  time — had  telephoned  again 
later — had  called  at  about  twelve  o'clock,  but  had  left  no  mes- 
sage. 

As  she  tore  open  Louis's  telegram  she  was  almost  ready  to 


OPENTHEDOOR  355 

come  to  life  again.  Was  it  all  a  mistake?  Was  she  a  fool, 
so  to  have  taken  to  heart  a  momentary  state  of  fatigue?  She 
was  at  the  mercy  of  a  sickening  back-wash  of  the  life  she 
thought  to  have  parted  from. 

Louis  asked  her  to  meet  him  at  half-past  twelve.  (There 
was  only  the  bare  request).  It  was  now  half-past  two. 

She  went  out  again,  desperate  to  find  him,  utterly  unable  to 
comprehend  her  own  actions  of  the  morning  by  which  she 
had  brought  this  about.  And  in  Princes  Street,  close  by  the 
Scott  Monument,  she  was  almost  run  into  by  a  figure  from 
which  long  scarves  and  mulberry-colored  draperies  fluttered 
picturesquely  in  the  east  wind.  It  was  Mildred  Lovatt. 

"  You  here,  my  dear  girl!  "  cried  the  little  woman.  "  But 
why  were  you  not  with  us?  We  have  just  given  Louis  Pender 
such  a  send-off!  You  know  his  panels  were  being  unveiled 
to-day  at  the  new  Nicholson  Hall? — The  Seasons — to  my  mind 
he's  never  done  anything  better.  But  I  needn't  tell  you!  I 
was  not  the  only  one  to  recognize  the  face  and  figure  of  Spring! 
After  the  unveiling  we  gave  him  a  luncheon  party;  and  as 
he  had  to  go  by  the  two  o'clock  train,  we  all  went  and  saw 
him  off.  He  had  a  frightful  cold,  poor  man,  but  I  think  we 
succeeded  in  cheering  him  up  a  little.  You  should  have  been 
with  us,  Joanna.  Fancy  your  being  in  Edinburgh.  .  .  ." 

Somehow  Joanna  excused  herself  and  made  her  escape. 
Louis  was  gone.  It  was  all  over.  No  more  hope.  Though 
it  had  been  by  her  own  doing  that  she  had  not  seen  him  again, 
she  did  not  deceive  herself  on  that  account.  If  he  had  wanted 
to  see  her  from  any  other  motive  than  remorseful  kindness,  he 
would  have  waited  longer.  He  must  have  remembered  that 
he  had  mentioned  four  as  the  hour  he  would  be  free.  Yet  he 
had  left  no  further  message  at  the  hotel.  He  had  brought  her 
to  Edinburgh  and  had  left  her  there  alone.  He  had  been  glad, 
no  doubt,  to  escape  so  easily. 

That  she  could  do  anything  else  now  than  return  to  her  hotel 
for  the  night  never  occurred  to  her.  Louis  was  gone.  But 
for  herself  as  yet  trains  to  London  had  no  existence.  The 
last  grain  of  her  initiative  was  gone.  Immediate  shelter  was 
all  she  could  think  of. 

Hour  after  hour  passed  till  night  came.  Still  she  had  not 
swallowed  a  morsel  of  food:  and  as  she  lay,  once  more  sleep- 
less, on  a  strange  bed,  with  a  laboring  heart,  and  lungs  unable 
to  compass  the  top  of  a  breath  for  all  their  continual,  deep 


356  OPENTHEDOOR 

sighing,  she  was  again  beset  by  that  sudden  fear  for  her  body. 

It  was  full  of  strange  pains.  Suppose  it  were  to  take  ill 
here  in  the  hotel?  Suppose  it  were  to  die?  Two  o'clock 
struck  from  a  church  outside  .  .  .  three  o'clock  .  .  .  four 
o'clock.  She  lacked  the  courage  to  rouse  strangers  at  this 
hour.  Yet  she  felt  so  ill — so  sinking  all  at  once — that  by  the 
usual  waking  time  she  was  sure  she  would  be  lastingly  stricken. 
Without  some  outside  help,  she  would  be  very  ill,  or  mad,  or 
dead  by  dawn.  Her  flesh  would  not  hold  out  so  long. 

But  why  should  it  hold  out?  Was  it  not  right  that  the 
vessel  no  longer  informed  by  the  spirit,  should  fly  asunder? 
Would  not  its  now  useless  particles  be  thrown  back  swiftly 
among  the  other  broken  potsherds,  diminished  not  one  whit 
for  the  unceasing  purposes  of  creation?  As  for  the  spirit, 
truly  one  need  never  fear  for  that.  The  spirit  could  neither 
be  defrauded  nor  added  unto.  It  needed  no  salvation  and  no 
pity,  returning  always  to  its  place  till  it  should  be  breathed 
again  into  some  new  vessel,  fashioned  from  the  immemorial 
stuff  of  the  old. 

It  was  she  only — Joanna — She,  Herself — that  would  be  no 
more  if  her  body  were  now  to  perish. 

Was  this  the  Law?  Was  this  what  her  mother  had  called 
the  Will  of  God?  If  so  she  would  yield  herself  to  it,  and  in 
faith  would  even  cease  utterly  to  be.  She  had  lived  a  little 
.  .  .  her  eyes  had  beheld  the  sun  .  .  .  Un  peu  d'amour,  et 
puts  bon  jour!  That  was  as  Louis  saw  it.  And  not  Louis 
only,  but  a  great  mass  of  the  world's  sages  and  poets.  Was  it 
not  enough?  Truly  it  was  a  good  deal.  Truly  it  had  its 
beauty  of  pathos,  its  melancholy  fascination,  its  own  deathly- 
sweet  flower  of  satisfaction. 

But  it  was  not  enough.  Not  at  least  for  her.  It  was  no 
more  enough  for  her  than  her  mother's  transference  of  fulfil- 
ment to  another  world  of  sheer  spirit  had  been,  nor  than  Geor- 
gie's  relinquishment  to  the  next  generation.  And  was  it 
indeed  a  thing  ordained  any  more  than  they?  Had  it  not  been 
said  "  My  Word  shall  not  return  unto  Me  void?  "  What  was 
oneself,  if  not  a  word?  Oneself  was  not  all  spirit,  as  Juley 
had  believed.  No  self  could  be,  without  the  body,  without 
the  form  of  clay  into  which  a  puff  of  spirit  had  gone  from  God's 
mouth.  In  breath  alone  there  is  no  word.  The  word  comes 
by  the  conscious  molding  of  the  lips,  by  that  which  gives  a 
preconceived  shape  to  the  formless  issuing  forth  of  breath. 


OPENTHEDOOR  357 

Grasping  this,  Joanna  was  yet  more  terrified.  At  first  it 
had  seemed  to  her  that  by  the  untimely  death  of  her  body,  her 
proper  self  would  cease  to  be.  Now  she  saw  that  if  her  body 
dissolved  into  its  elements  at  that  moment,  she  would  more 
truly  never  have  been  at  all.  For  that  fusion  between  flesh 
and  spirit  in  which  alone  is  absolute  being  had  not  taken 
place  in  her  as  yet.  The  spirit  had  been  in  her:  the  form 
of  the  word  she  had  been  designed  to  utter  had  been  hers. 
But  the  two  had  stayed  apart,  and  now  they  would  go  their 
several  unfertile  ways.  Here  was  annulment  indeed!  Here 
was  the  empty  returning  of  the  word  which  God  hated.  Before 
ceasing  to  be,  she  must  be.  And  to  that  end  the  disruption  of 
her  body  must  be  deferred  yet  awhile.  The  flesh  must  be  kept 
from  its  separate  extinction  till  it  had  lived  again  and  anew,  in- 
terpenetrated by  the  returning  spirit,  and  so  serving  its  purpose. 

The  question  that  now  grew  every  moment  more  urgent 
was  how  this  might  be  done.  How  save  her  body  when  she 
could  neither  rest  nor  eat  nor  sleep?  While  she  did  nothing 
but  think,  the  unravelling  was  steadily  going  forward.  Soon 
she  would  be  too  late. 

As  these  fears  swept  her  distracted  being,  memories  of 
Aunt  Perdy  began  to  present  themselves.  Tentative  at  first, 
they  became  persistent.  Aunt  Perdy  had  spoken  of  fleshly 
renewal,  of  death,  of  a  new  birth.  She  had  spoken  much  and 
with  authority  of  unseen  forces  that  were  in  the  air  about  us 
ever  in  attendance  to  help  or  to  hinder. 

And  what  was  it  that  Aunt  Perdy  had  said  about  the-body 
being  as  a  string  of  beads?  ...  a  shock  of  ripe  corn  .  .  . 
of  its  capacity  for  relapsing  into  a  motion  of  such  fine  degrees 
that  is  was  a  kind  of  living  stillness  in  which  restoration  came 
to  it  from  every  side? 

Joanna  slipped  out  of  bed.  She  could  smell  the  wall- 
flowers on  the  dressing-table.  The  room  was  not  quite  dark, 
but  of  a  negative  gray  dimness  filled  with  triangular  shadows. 
As  she  drooped,  and  sank,  and  came  limply  to  the  floor  like  a 
heap  of  grain  that  is  softly  flung  down,  she  thought  involun- 
tarily of  a  field  in  which  the  meek  sheaves  are  bowed  together. 
She  herself  had  fallen  into  something  of  the  posture  of  an 
Oriental  at  prayer.  And  as  she  had  fallen,  so  she  remained 
a  long  while  at  rest.  Her  lax  thighs  ached  violently,  and  her 
loins  were  wrung  with  a  new  pain  as  if  some  poison  had  sud- 
denly revealed  its  course.  But  gradually  the  ache  grew  less 


358  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

and  less;  and  when  it  was  gone,  instinctively  as  a  woodland 
creature  turns  in  its  sleep,  she  let  herself  roll  with  a  gentle 
heavy  movement  on  to  her  back.  Her  limbs,  all  slack,  went 
sliding  and  quivering  their  length  upon  the  gray  floor.  Soon 
every  inch  of  her  lay  there  released.  Not  till  that  moment 
did  she  know  how  tightly  strung  she  had  been  for  the  last 
forty  hours  and  more. 

Then  how  steadily  and  how  strangely  the  deathliness  of 
fatigue  went  rippling  along  her  arms,  along  her  legs,  and  away! 
Here  at  least  Aunt  Perdy  had  been  right.  One  thought  wrongly 
of  the  body  as  of  something  single  and  upright.  Truly  it 
was  no  more  than  a  handful  of  various  weights  strung  loosely 
on  a  string. 

Joanna  knew  that  she  was  safe  now  from  what  had  threat- 
ened her.  Her  body,  still  bereft,  was  safe.  Her  defeated 
brain  was  laved  by  the  clear  waves  of  nothingness.  She  lay 
and  lay  till  time  for  her  was  not.  Slowly  her  breathing 
altered.  It  grew  deeper,  milder,  more  regular,  and  at  last  in 
the  sure  knowledge  of  sleep  she  returned  to  her  bed. 

It  was  now  that  there  sounded  in  her  soothed  ear  a  small, 
sweet  forgotten  voice  of  childhood.  At  Duntarvie,  long  ago, 
her  bed  had  stood  within  hearing  of  the  house  cistern.  Here 
in  the  same  room  with  her,  by  a  curious  chance,  was  the  water 
tank  of  the  hotel.  It  was  hidden  in  a  cupboard,  and  in  the 
daytime  she  had  only  dully  recognized  a  familiar  presence 
by  certain  muffled  thrummings  and  spoutings  and  sudden  gush- 
ings.  Through  the  night  as  yet  she  had  marked  no  sound  at 
all. 

But  now  in  this  secret  hour  before  dawn,  when  the  rest  of 
the  world  was  asleep,  and  Joanna  was  waiting  in  quietness  till 
sleep  should  come  to  her,  the  water  began  to  speak.  It  started 
unaccountably  out  of  the  silence  with  exquisite  precision. 

Drip  .  ,  .  dreep-dreep-dreep  .  .  .  drop,  drop  .  .  .  dripeet, 
dripeeteet  .  .  .  drip-ipeet-ipeety! —  went  the  tiny,  silvern,  in- 
terminable cadenza.  Like  silver  its  music  tinkled — like  seed- 
pearls,  like  icicles,  so  fine  and  clear  and  absolved  that  it  was 
an  ecstasy  to  hear — a  keen  ecstasy  quite  purged  of  any  dross 
of  excitement.  Steadily  the  singing  would  go  on  for  a  bar 
or  two,  tone  after  perfect  tone.  Then  like  a  rill  that  leaps 
under  starlight  it  would  scatter  its  drops  in  a  spray  of  grace- 
notes.  On  it  went,  sometimes  singing,  sometimes  speaking, 
modulating  continually  from  one  delicate,  undreamed-of 


OPENTHEDOOR  359 

rhythm  to  another.  And  though  it  was  a  voice  from  child- 
hood, Joanna  had  never  truly  heard  it  before.  It  was  the  still, 
small  voice  of  a  new  birth,  of  a  new  life,  of  a  new  world.  It 
was  a  new  voice,  but  it  was  the  oldest  of  all  the  voices.  For  it 
was  the  voice  before  creation,  secure,  unearthly,  frail  as  filigree 
yet  faithful  as  a  star. 


CHAPTER  IV 


SHE  had  slept,  and  in  the  train  next  day  on  her  way  to 
London  she  was  still  able  to  rest.    Her  body  was  weak 
but  safe.    After  the  alternation  of  sharp,  riving  pain  and  dull 
stupor  which  had  been  her  existence  for  the  last  two  days, 
this  was  almost  happiness. 

In  the  barn-like  Waverley  Station  wherein  the  passengers 
seemed  like  so  many  strewn  grains  from  the  threshing,  she 
had  slipped  clear  of  her  trouble.  She  too  was  now  but  a 
grain,  a  speck,  whereas  last  night  her  heart  had  filled  the  uni- 
verse with  its  heavy  and  clamorous  throbbing.  In  this  re- 
stored proportion  she  had  only  her  infinitesimal  part  in  the 
whole,  and  it  was  enough.  Behind  her  lay  great  misery:  before 
her  in  London  she  knew  that  more  awaited  her.  But  she 
might  make  of  this  journey  a  quiet  breathing  space — a  narrow 
oasis  in  which  for  an  hour  she  could  forget  the  choking 
desert. 

Having  no  stomach  yet  for  everyday  victuals,  she  had 
bought  herself  a  little,  rare  basketful  of  fruit.  Here  was  a 
knot  of  grapes  the  color  of  glacier  water,  here  were  two  grana- 
dillas — passion-flower  fruits  with  their  tough  rinds  full  of 
luscious,  translucent  globules,  here  were  almonds  to  crunch, 
a  white-fleshed  apple  into  which  to  drive  one's  teeth,  a  peach 
from  which  the  velvet,  scented  skin  came  glibly  away. 

Leaning  back  idly  in  the  corner  of  an  empty  compartment 
she  watched  the  wheeling  countryside.  It  was  a  poet's  May 
morning,  one  of  those  mornings  when  white,  white  clouds  are 
piled  up  and  gleaming,  and  the  sunshine  lies  like  snow  along  the 
hedges.  Young  lambs  that  might  themselves  have  been  snow 
leavings,  were  scattered  upon  the  emerald  grass.  A  faint, 
low  haze  of  hyacinths  hovered  in  the  bare  woods.  In  one 
small  station  through  which  the  train  passed  without  stopping, 
the  steep  banks  were  rich  with  crocuses  that  had  already  been 
split  and  ravished — with  crocuses  that  were  flaming  their 
lives  out  like  passionate  lamps. 

360 


OPENTHEDOOR  361 

Joanna  sat  on  that  side  of  the  train  next  to  the  corridor, 
and  every  now  and  then  passing  between  her  and  the  Lothians, 
some  passenger  would  blot  out  a  whole  brown  woodland  or 
amber  colored  field  or  bare  hill  of  palest  amethyst.  To  her 
at  the  moment  one  broad,  obscuring  back  was  like  another. 
She  hardly  realized  therefore,  that  a  particular  pair  of  tweed 
shoulders  returned  again  and  again  until  they  came  at  length 
to  a  hesitating  stand-still  opposite  the  door  of  her  compartment. 
Even  when  the  door  opened,  and  a  man's  brown  face  looked 
in  with  inquiring  friendliness,  and  a  lean  hand  was  stretched 
out,  and  her  name  warmly  uttered — even  then  it  was  several 
moments  before  she  realized  that  the  stranger  was  her  old 
playmate  Bob  Ranken. 

"  Joanna!     It  is  you!  " 

"Why  ...  Bob!  " 

He  wrung  her  hand  and  sat  down  opposite,  smiling — taking 
off  his  hat,  looking  at  her  with  evident  pleasure. 

Joanna  too  looked  at  him.  He  was  the  same  old  Bob! 
After  the  first  shock  of  shyness  and  strangeness  she  saw  that 
he  had  not  really  changed.  He  was  bigger,  older,  and  certain 
marks  of  worldly  assurance  were  as  clear  as  the  deep  sun- 
wrinkles  that  surrounded  his  eyes.  But  the  African  sun  had 
not  burned  away  the  spiritual  indecision  lurking  about  his  at- 
tractive lips,  nor  informed  the  almost  callow  innocence  of  his 
gaze. 

"  Do  come  into  our  carriage,"  he  begged  her  schoolboyishly. 
"  My  father  is  there  with  me.  I  thought  and  thought  it  must 
be  you.  But  your  hat  hid  your  eyes  and  I  wasn't  positive." 

"  I  wonder  you  knew  me  at  all,"  said  Joanna.  "  I  am 
changed  more  than  you,  I  think.  Am  I  not  changed?  " 

"Yes  and  no,"  he  replied.  "I  felt  a  bit  afraid  of  the 
dashing-looking  female  I  first  caught  sight  of.  But  now  that 
I  have  a  good  look  at  you  I  can  see  the  old  Joanna.  I  wish 
you  would  take  your  hat  off.  Would  you  have  known  me?  " 

';  Anywhere!  " 

"  Yet  you  didn't  when  I  first  came  in  and  stuck  out  my  paw 
at  you." 

"  Xo.    I  was  half  asleep." 

"  Asleep?     You  didn't  look  it!  " 

"  Thinking,  then." 

"Ah!  " 

He  searched  her  face  curiously  as  she  rose,  and  they  went 


362  OPENTHEDOOR 

together  to  the  other  carriage  where  Dr.  Ranken  sat  reading 
with  one  plaid  about  his  shoulders  and  another  over  his  knees. 
The  old  minister  looked  fragile  indeed,  but  he  had  maintained 
a  brittle  alertness.  He  smiled  his  wintry  yet  rather  sweet 
smile  at  Joanna,  and  made  her  sit  by  him  while  he  asked  about 
her  doings,  and  about  her  brothers — mentioning  both  by  name 
— and  about  Georgie  and  Georgie's  baby.  It  was  a  clear  and 
a  pleasing  point  of  vanity  with  him,  this  individual  remem- 
brance which  he  kept  of  each  boy  and  girl  who  had  ever  had  a 
place  in  his  flock.  And  Joanna  was  the  more  surprised  as  in 
their  childhood  he  had  never  seemed  to  them  to  notice  their 
existence.  Certainly  his  former  bleakness  was  gone.  Time, 
sometimes  generous,  had  given  him  with  his  white  locks, 
a  distinction  quite  denied  to  his  middle-age.  And  it  was 
perhaps  his  own  appreciation  of  this  that  made  him 
genial. 

"  And  your  mother,"  he  said  presently, — "  I  was  sorry, 
very  sorry  to  hear  of  her  death.  Your  mother,  my  dear,  was 
a  good  woman." 

"  Yes,"  said  Joanna. 

"  I  never  knew  a  better.  And  she  had  courage — a  rare 
gift  ...  a  gift  I  esteem  not  less  but  more  as  I  grow  older. 
True,  theologically  we  did  not  always  see  eye  to  eye,  your 
mother  and  myself  .  .  .  "he  twinkled. 

So  they  talked  mostly  of  the  early  days  in  Glasgow,  of  St. 
Jude's  Church,  of  the  Boyds,  of  this  one's  death,  that  one's 
marriage,  the  disgrace  of  that  other.  And  the  old  man  was 
lively  in  his  interest.  As  for  the  young  man,  he  sat  smoking 
and  watching,  seldom  speaking.  In  answer  to  Joanna's  ques- 
tions he  told  her  a  little  about  his  work,  and  she  divined  that  he 
loved  the  part  of  the  world  where  it  was.  Laconically  as  he 
spoke,  there  was  enthusiasm  in  his  description  of  a  certain  high 
mountain  which  dominated  the  landscape  visible  from  his 
bungalow. 

But  if  Bob  took  no  great  part  in  the  conversation,  he  was  alJ 
the  more  intent  in  listening  to  every  least  remark  of  Joanna's. 
When  they  parted  at  King's  Cross  he  was  emphatic  upon  the 
strange  coincidence  of  their  meeting.  He  had  meant,  he  said, 
the  very  next  day  to  have  sought  her  out  at  Chapel  Court. 
Might  he  still  come?  He  was  to  be  at  the  least  a  fortnight  in 
London.  Joanna  could  not  but  see  that  his  eyes  were  full  of 
eager  reminiscence. 


OPEN   THE   DOOR  363 

ii 

But  at  the  Moons'  house  there  was  trouble. 

Roddy,  who  had  fallen  ill  suddenly,  was  to  be  operated  upon 
next  day.  Edwin  Moon  was  white  with  anxiety.  Trissie 
was  gray.  He  was  bowed  more  than  ever.  She  was  more  than 
ever  upright.  Dreadfully  upright  she  was,  with  her  shoulders 
thrown  back  and  her  desperate  head  held  high. 

They  had  "  taken  the  liberty  " — they  told  Joanna,  upon  her 
arrival  when  the  bad  news  was  poured  out — of  using  her  bed- 
room as  the  sick  chamber.  It  was  the  most  suitable  in  the 
house,  and  they  could  not  bear  to  have  the  child  taken  to  a 
nursing  home.  Already  the  stripped  walls  were  hung  with 
sheets  drenched  in  carbolic,  and  the  scrubbed  kitchen  table 
stood  shockingly  in  the  middle  of  a  bare  floor. 

During  the  week  that  followed,  Joanna,  sleeping  on  the  sofa 
in  her  sitting-room,  gave  every  minute  of  her  time  and  every 
ounce  of  strength  to  the  racked  household.  She  cooked,  ran 
errands,  found  a  substitute  for  Trissie  at  the  laundry,  inter- 
viewed customers  downstairs  for  Mr.  Moon,  helped  to  tend 
the  unwitting  Edvina.  And  so  long  as  all  went  well  with 
Roddy  she  was  content.  While  the  distraction  of  illness  lasted, 
her  own  essential  life  stayed  apart,  suspended.  It  was  a  respite. 

And  the  operation  was  a  success.  Roddy  emerged  from  it 
his  entire,  bright  self.  It  seemed  there  was  no  further  cause 
for  anxiety.  Yet  Trissie's  face  remained  tense  and  ashen  as 
before,  nor  would  Edwin  leave  the  bedside. 

That  night,  though  she  was  very  weary,  Joanna  lay  sleepless. 
With  Roddy  out  of  danger  her  own  troubles  were  again  un- 
leashed, and  now  like  hounds  they  threatened  her.  She  stayed 
broad  awake  till  after  sunrise.  Then,  when  she  had  newly 
fallen  into  a  drowse,  came  a  touch  on  her  shoulder.  She  sat 
up  instantly.  It  was  Trissie,  who  said  a  low  word  and  was 
gone.  Joanna  leapt  up,  threw  on  her  dressing  gown,  and 
followed. 

An  hour  before  dawn — nearly  twenty  hours  after  the  sur- 
geon's work  was  satisfactorily  completed — the  child  had  begun 
to  look  strange  about  the  eyes.  Then  he  had  slipped  by  slow, 
obstinate  degrees  into  unconsciousness.  Now  he  was  in  a 
coma.  "  Coma,"  was  the  word  that  had  remained  with  Jo- 
anna when  Trissie  had  spoken  and  vanished. 

It  was  "  a  most  uncommon  case,"  declared  the  puzzled  phy- 


364  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

sician  (the  surgeon  having  performed  his  task  and  being  busy 
elsewhere,  did  not  appear).  But  he  thought  they  would 
"pull  the  little  chap  through." 

Trissie's  eyes  widened  in  murderous  disbelief  till  the  white 
glared  all  round  the  irises,  but  she  carried  out  every  direc- 
tion submissively  and  well,  winning  the  doctor's  praise.  There 
never  had  been  such  a  nurse.  As  for  Edwin  Moon,  through 
each  unfolding  horror  of  activity  around  the  bed,  he  only 
sat  with  his  head  hanging,  looking  on  without  hope,  quite 
passive. 

Twice  in  the  course  of  the  day  they  managed  to  rouse  the 
boy  so  that  he  uttered  conscious  and  natural  cries  of  protest. 
And  after  the  second  of  these  times  he  lay  awhile  quiet,  and 
was  his  composed  self  as  if  he  would  recover. 

The  father  raised  his  head  then  and  gazed  into  his  son's 
open  eyes.  And  Roddy,  as  if  he  had  been  waiting  for  this, 
smiled  back  at  him  contentedly. 

So  they  would  have  remained,  but  the  mother  bent  forward, 
thrusting  herself  between  them  in  her  terrible  jealousy. 

"  How  does  my  sonny  feel  now?  "  she  asked,  curbing  her 
frenzy  with  an  effort  that  almost  killed  her,  into  a  tone  of 
gentle  ordinariness. 

At  this,  Roddy  only  moved  his  head  restlessly,  searching 
past  his  mother  with  feeble  impatience  for  his  father's  lost 
face. 

How's  my  sonny?  "  she  repeated, — this  time  a  fine  jet 
of  her  agony  breaking  through  in  her  voice. 

"  Much  better  thank  you." 

Roddy  spoke  with  the  politeness  he  used  to  strangers.  And 
again  he  sought  his  father's  eyes. 

Trissie  turned  away.  Her  face  was  like  some  crude,  grin- 
ning mask  of  tragedy. 

But  the  child  had  scarcely  spoken,  before  consciousness 
flickered  out  again.  An  hour  .  .  .  two  hours  ...  of  un- 
broken stupor  followed,  do  what  they  would.  And  then  the 
small,  square  finger  tips  began  to  curve  strangely  outwards 
like  young  leaves  that  are  too  near  a  flame.  And  he  grew 
cold.  And  one  long,  long  breath  was  the  last  he  would  ever 
draw. 

The  mother,  her  eyes  wide  and  unseeing,  stayed  by  the  dead 
boy.  And  the  father,  having  composed  the  small  limbs, 
wandered  slowly  from  the  room. 


OPENTHEDOOR  365 

in 

It  was  on  the  night  before  the  burial  that  Trissie  found 
relief  in  a  stream  of  incoherent  speech  which  seemed  as  though 
it  had  been  pent  up  for  ages  and  now  could  never  have  an 
end. 

Edwin,  she  told  Joanna  had  gone  out,  and  would  probably 
walk  the  streets  till  morning,  as  he  had  done  many  a  time 
before.  This  was  not  their  first  trouble.  What  else  indeed 
but  trouble  had  they  known  these  many  years? 

She  sat  on  the  little  rocking  chair  in  the  archway  room 
that  midnight,  and  her  story — or  what  she  thought  was  her 
story — came  from  her  in  a  bitter  confusion  of  words. 

When  all  had  been  said,  Joanna  knew  little  more  about 
the  Moons  than  she  had  already  gathered  half-consciously 
by  living  with  them.  She  learned  indeed  for  the  first  time 
that  Moon  was  not  their  real  name,  and  that  the  name  they 
had  foregone  was  one  well  thought  of  in  a  northern  county 
where  once  they  had  lived  prosperously.  But  what  Edwin 
had  done — saving  that  it  had  been  an  act  of  criminal  folly 
by  which  he  had  nothing  to  gain  and  everything  to  lose — 
all  Trissie's  incontinence  did  not  disclose.  He  had  done  it, 
declared  Trissie,  when  he  was  not  himself.  For  he  had  never 
been  himself  since  the  day  when  his  pet  Edvina,  from  being 
a  lovely,  lively  child  of  two,  had  within  an  hour  become  the 
thing  she  now  was.  Was  it  any  wonder  if  crazed  by  this 
blow  he  had  thought  for  a  time  that  certain  babies  were 
better  not  to  be  born  into  the  world  at  all?  Be  that  as  it 
might,  such  thoughts  had  led  to  a  disaster  from  which  his 
life  and  hers  had  never  recovered.  Ill  luck  had  dogged  them 
ever  since. 

Here  was  the  burden  of  Trissie's  lament.  Here,  in  the  steady 
incorrigible  tracking  down  by  misfortune.  It  was  Edwin 
whom  the  pursuing  furies  had  marked  for  their  prey.  She, 
Trissie,  had  been  born — she  was  sure  of  it — for  good  fortune. 
It  was  this  knowledge  that  had  bred  in  her  a  bitter  envy  of 
Joanna's  youth  and  freedom,  an  envy  she  now  begged  to  be 
forgiven.  She  had  always  been  known  as  a  lucky  person,  and 
was  convinced  she  would  be  still,  were  it  not  for  Edwin.  It 
was  Edwin  who  had  spoiled  her  life,  who  had  cheated  her  of 
her  happiness,  who  had  brought  upon  her  one  trouble  after 
another.  And  he  had  done  it  in  all  innocence.  Therein 


366 

lay  his  offence.  Any  wickedness — again  and  again  Trissie 
wildly  repeated  this  phrase — any  wickedness,  she  could  have 
forgiven  him.  For  then  she  could  have  cut  herself  off  from 
him.  If  he  were  a  guilty  man,  she  could  have  gone  free,  been 
happy  (once,  just  before  the  birth  of  Roddy  she  had  tried  to 
leave  him,  and  he  had  told  her  she  was  free  to  do  the  best 
for  herself).  But  he  was  an  innocent  man.  It  was  only 
that  fate  had  marked  him  as  a  prey.  And  how  could  she  leave 
this  Jonah,  this  victim,  this  man  set  apart  for  vengeance, 
by  whose  side  nothing  could  prosper? 

So  the  wife  raved  and  wept. 

But  on  the  day  of  the  burial,  Joanna  came  nearer  to  the 
true  heart  of  the  mystery. 

In  the  church,  and  afterwards  by  the  graveside,  she  saw 
how  the  strange  couple  clung  each  to  the  other.  And  there 
was  that  in  their  clinging  which  was  more  than  the  ordinary 
holding  together  for  comfort  of  married  mourners.  To  Jo- 
anna it  seemed  to  proclaim  their  secret  from  the  housetops. 
The  Moons,  like  Phemie  and  Jimmie,  possessed  what  she  in 
her  own  unfulfilled  being  must  envy. 

IV 

Now  she  would  have  to  go  back  to  her  own  life. 

But  the  day  before,  it  had  seemed  as  if  she  might  live  only 
in  Trissie's  life  and  in  entire  devotion  to  Trissie's  unhappiness. 
Now  she  knew  that  Trissie  did  not  need  her.  The  husband 
and  wife  had  cast  her  out  by  the  grave.  She  had  no  part 
with  them.  She  must  go  on  again  alone  with  what  was 
no  longer  a  life,  but  only  a  dying  and  a  denial. 

So  it  was  that  in  the  weeks  that  followed,  Roddy's  death 
ceased  to  cause  her  any  personal  grief.  It  became  merely 
another  incident  in  the  recession  of  all  life  from  her.  For  days 
on  end  she  was  shorn  of  herself,  shorn  of  the  world,  shorn  of 
the  old  assured  existence  for  which  her  mother  at  one  end, 
and  Louis  at  the  other,  had  supremely  stood.  She  was  de- 
nuded even  of  the  warm  and  exquisite  fleece  of  memory. 
She  had  no  past,  no  living  present,  no  conceivable  future. 
But  under  all  her  deathliness  was  one  grain  of  faith  that  death 
must  be  fulfilled  to  the  uttermost  before  any  new  birth  can 
be.  She  lay  abandoned,  waiting  in  a  perfection  of  emptiness. 


OPENTHEDOOR  367 


But  to  die  is  not  so  easy — to  die,  that  is,  the  death  in  which 
is  clenched  the  seed  of  a  new  birth.  There  are  pangs  in  it  of 
false  resurrection,  dreadful  like  the  return  of  Lazarus.  As  in 
the  death  of  the  body,  the  will  revives  time  after  time  and 
fights.  Appalled  and  faithless  the  consciousness  struggles 
in  the  very  act  of  dissolution  to  be  again  what  it  was — to 
escape  its  appointed  re-entry  into  the  dark  womb  of  extinc- 
tion. 

In  these  weeks  there  were  mornings  when  Joanna  woke  full 
of  a  gnawing  malaise  for  Louis. 

Then  all  her  memories,  fiendish,  but  clad  like  angels,  would 
leap  to  their  deathly  work.  All  the  old  lies  would  raise  their 
plausible,  flat  heads,  denying  the  possibility  of  true  renewal. 
Back,  back,  back  she  must  go  into  safety;  back  to  haven: 
back  to  the  known  system  which  swung  securely  between  the 
psalm-singing,  sunset  faith  of  her  fathers  and  the  exquisite 
underworld  of  moonlight  and  falling  leaves  wherein  Louis 
had  his  dwelling.  Resignation,  renunciation,  sacrifice!  These 
thrust  forward  their  false,  lovely  faces;  and  all  their  plead- 
ings were  for  the  revival  of  self-insistence  under  the  mask 
of  immolation. 

For  even  in  extremis  a  choice  is  left,  and  the  will  has  its 
part.  Joanna  had  lost  Louis.  But  there  was  still  a  way  in 
which  she  might  refuse  to  go  from  him.  The  very  circumstan- 
ces of  their  love  which  had  kept  them  apart  for  months  at 
a  time,  the  fact  that  in  her  dealings  with  him  she  had  been 
clear  of  pettiness,  his  assurance  in  the  train  that  he  had  not 
so  much  changed  toward  her  as  broken  down  in  himself — 
all  these  offered  her  that  way  of  death  in  life  which  is  chosen 
every  day  that  passes  by  people  of  her  nature. 

She  could  be  faithful  to  Louis.  She  could  refuse  to  forget 
and  to  go  on.  With  loyal  obstinate  submissiveness  she  could 
turn  her  life  into  a  shrine.  She  had  seen  the  faces  of  women 
who  had  done  this.  Was  it  not  the  best  way  when  one  had 
so  deeply  committed  oneself?  It  was  not  the  way  of  the  new 
birth,  but  it  lay  at  hand;  it  showed  the  sign-post  of  authority; 
one  could  travel  it  and  not  yield  up  one's  will. 

Or  on  other  days  a  different  brood  of  devils  would  crowd 
in  upon  her.  These  had  features  less  like  Juley's  than  the 


368  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

last,  and  more  like  Louis'.  They  were  full  of  pleasantry  and 
mocking  reasonableness. 

Why  take  so  tragically,  they  asked,  what  was  probably  only 
one  of  her  lover's  bad  moods?  It  was  a  question  of  time  and 
good  sense,  good  sense  being  what  she  had  chiefly  lacked. 
He  had  behaved  badly  no  doubt.  But  she  might  have  man- 
aged him  if  she  hadn't  been  so  painfully  in  earnest.  She  might 
still,  with  time,  coolness  and  skill,  win  him  afresh. 

Or  quite  suddenly  she  would  find  herself  caught  up  in  a 
whirlpool  of  hatred  and  all-encompassing  spite. 

Why  should  Louis  go  free  while  she  was  thus  tormented? 
she  would  then  ask.  Could  she  not  make  him  suffer,  perse- 
cute him,  even  kill  him?  Why  not?  As  man  to  desperate 
woman,  his  would  be  the  disadvantage.  He  was  spared  by 
her  scruples,  not  by  her  fears.  It  was  no  matter  what 
became  of  her  so  that  she  could  wreak  herself  once  and  for 
all  upon  him.  When  she  dragged  him  out  before  his  world 
that  he  so  feared,  ranted  forth  her  mind  at  him,  showed  him 
like  a  beaten  cur  to  his  wife  and  his  sons  and  his  son's  wife, 
made  the  seemliness  he  so  treasured,  impossible  for  him  forth- 
with, she  could  complete  the  work  by  killing  herself.  What 
was  to  prevent  her?  Nothing! 

Nothing,  save  that  in  spite  of  all,  she  knew  she  was  finely 
prompted  in  respecting  Louis's  obduracy.  Something  whis- 
pered that  is  was  not  all  cowardice  for  him  to  have  cast  her 
off,  that  beneath  the  maddening  incidents  of  their  parting 
he  had  taken  a  step  which  was  intrinsically  decent.  Was  not 
his  action  in  harmony  with  the  unknown  forces  that  had  long 
been  driving  her  out  of  his  world?  What  if  the  break  be- 
tween them  had  sprung  from  his  refusal  to  drag  her  further 
into  his  own  long  dying? 

So  she  took  no  decisive  action.  And  the  only  outcome  of 
all  her  stormy  hours  was  some  letters.  She  could  not  help 
writing  letters  to  Louis  that  were  by  turns  exalted,  self-abas- 
ing, passionate,  reasonable,  threatening,  and  simply  appealing. 

Louis  replied  by  one  letter  only. 

"  You  must  allow  me  to  act,"  he  wrote  at  last,  "  as  I  think 
best.  Believe  me,  I'm  saving  you  from  yourself,  as  well  as,  in 
another  way,  saving  myself  from  you.  I  don't  want  to  see 
you.  I  won't.  It  could  serve  no  purpose  except  to  hurt  us 
both,  and  what's  the  use  of  that?  I  haven't  exactly  changed 


OPEN    THE    DOOR  369 

in  my  feeling  toward  you.  I've  meant  every  word  and  more, 
that  I  ever  spoke  to  you.  You  know  that  well  enough,  I 
expect.  There  will  never  be  anyone  else  to  count.  There 
never  was  anyone  else  that  meant  at  all  the  same  as  you  have 
meant  (and  I  suppose,  still  mean)  to  me.  It  may  seem  strange 
to  you  when  I  say  I  care  every  bit  as  much  as  I  ever  have — 
possibly  more.  I  confess  it  seems  strange  to  me.  Certainly 
I  didn't  expect  anything  of  the  kind  when  we  began.  But 
something  has  gone  dead  in  me,  Joanna.  I  can't  go  on. 
That's  what  I  realized  on  the  journey  to  Edinburgh  when  I 
was  so  awfully  tired.  Quite  suddenly,  once  and  for  all,  I 
realized  it.  I  can't  go  on.  And  in  this  of  ours,  we  must  go 
on  or  make  an  end.  Don't  you  agree?  As  I  see  things  now, 
it  has  been  tug  and  tug  between  us  this  long  time  past — per- 
haps the  whole  time.  If  I'd  had  it  in  me  I  would  have  gone 
off  with  you  long  ago.  You  always  wanted  that,  I  know,  and 
once  or  twice  I  have  fancied  that  I  could.  But  I  know  now 
that  I  never  could  have.  It  would  only  have  been  a  sicken- 
ing disaster  for  both  of  us  if  I  had  tried.  Perhaps  I  was  too 
old  when  you  got  me.  You  don't  know  yet  what  that  feels 
like  and  you  ought  to  be  thankful.  Anyhow  there  it  is. 
It  has  wanted  courage  for  me  to  cut  loose  from  you  and  stay 
behind.  You  must  have  the  courage  to  cut  loose  from  me  and 
go  on.  I  believe  you  can  do  this.  But  whatever  you  do, 
don't  make  things  ugly  and  regrettable  at  the  end  by  asking 
the  impossible  of  me.  I'm  sure  I've  done  you  no  harm, 
and  I  hope  I  may  have  done  you  good.  Let  me  alone,  my 
dear,  with  my  memories.  Be  sure  a  man  never  had  sweeter 
ones.  Be  sure  I  wish  you  well,  and  am  forever  grateful. 

"  Your  old  lover, 
"  Louis." 

If  many  a  time,  in  his  love-making,  Joanna  had  been  driven 
to  make  excuses  to  herself  for  her  lover,  in  his  withdrawal  he 
rose  far  beyond  any  need  of  apology.  If  she  indeed  had  it 
in  her  to  go  forward  into  a  new,  unimagined  life,  here  in  this 
letter  would  lie  her  dearest  trophy  from  the  old. 


VI 

During  the  futile  weeks  that  followed,  she  even  took  to 
visiting  fortune-tellers.     It  was  a  tribe  that  had  never  be- 


370  OPEN   THE    DOOR 

fore  caught  her  attention.  But  the  days  must  be  passed 
somehow. 

Though  she  despised  herself  for  it,  and  had  little  enough 
money  to  spare  from  necessities,  she  would  put  down  the  pre- 
posterous fee  eagerly  for  the  false  excitement  it  brought — 
would  wait  trembling  in  the  frowsy  ante-chamber  of  the  oracle. 
And  once,  when  some  hag  of  the  Edgware  Road  hinted  at 
what  might  be  construed  into  a  marriage,  after  many  years, 
with  Louis,  she  went  home  with  a  lighter  step — to  know  within 
the  hour  that  is  was  a  shameful  drug. 

This  however  did  not  prevent  her  from  repeating  the  same 
folly,  and  she  continued  fitfully  to  go  from  one  soothsayer  to 
another. 

"  I  see  a  dark  ...  no,  a  fair  man  ..."  droned  the  sibyl, 
(This  time  she  was  rich  in  her  appointments,  and  herself 
young,  large  and  comely  as  a  stalled  ox.)  ..."  I  see  a 
medium  fair  man  .  .  .  still  young  .  .  .  yes  .  .  .  the  first 
love  ...  his  thoughts  are  toward  you  .  .  .  there  was  a  break 
.  .  .  both  were  in  fault  .  .  .  years  have  passed  .  .  .  but 
he  has  been  faithful  .  .  .  and  now  his  heart  is  set  toward 
his  first  love  ...  I  see  happinness  .  .  .  money  .  .  .  child- 
ren .  .  .  two  boys  ...  no  ...  a  boy  and  a  girl  .  .  .  seas 
to  be  crossed  .  .  .  many  storms  in  the  past  .  .  .  but  happiness 
close  at  hand!  "  She  sank  back  in  her  chair  as  if  utterly  ex- 
hausted, drew  the  black  velvet  over  her  glass  ball  and  closed 
her  eyes. 

And  Joanna  was  impressed. 

During  the  last  fortnight  Bob  Ranken  had  continually 
sought  her  company.  Noticing  her  drooping  spirits,  he  had 
insisted  more  than  once  upon  her  going  out  with  him  to  dinner 
in  town  and  had  taken  her  to  a  theater  afterwards.  And  that 
very  afternoon,  on  her  return  to  Chapel  Court,  she  met  him 
coming  dejectedly  away  after  a  vain  call  there.  In  a  week 
he  would  be  leaving  England.  So  she  had  to  allow  him  to 
turn  back  with  her,  and  to  sit  talking  in  her  room.  She  had 
only  to  look  at  him  to  know  how  very  easily  she  might  make 
the  crystal-gazer's  prophecy  come  true. 

She  was  tempted.  She  did  not  love  Bob,  but  he  had  still 
the  power  to  stir  a  curious  tenderness  in  her.  Also  it  was 
dangerously  sweet  and  flattering,  especially  coming  upon  the 
heels  of  such  humiliation  as  could  hardly  be  borne,  to  have 
stumbled  upon  the  fulfilment  of  an  old  dream.  After  all 


OPEN   THE   DOOR  371 

these  years,  Bob  wanted  her.  There  would  not  only  be  safety 
with  him,  but  as  well  a  kind  of  newness  which  promised  much. 
What  of  the  mountain  he  could  see  from  his  bungalow  .  .  . 
The  African  veld  .  .  .  different  skies  .  .  .  dark  faces  .  .  .  yet 
another  escape?  And  with  Bob,  however  fond  a  wife  she 
might  become,  she  knew  that  she  would  be  able  to  keep 
her  essential  being  intact,  a  shrine  for  Louis  to  the  end. 

But  Joanna's  will,  which  had  so  often  served  her  badly, 
served  her  well  in  this;  and  that  day  she  put  the  temptation 
aside.  Better  never  be  than  be  so  falsely,  foisting  at  the  same 
time  falseness  upon  another. 

So  she  turned  from  him,  and  denied  him  every  chance  of 
speaking.  And  the  next  week  Bob  left  England  as  he  had 
come. 

VII 

She  visited  no  more  palmists.  She  did  nothing  and  went 
nowhere,  neither  worked  nor  read.  The  long-preserved  shell 
of  habit  had  crumbled  at  last.  But  although  acquiescence 
might  mean  open  ruin,  she  could  only  wait  passively.  She 
could  not  move  without  some  vital  prompting. 

It  was  not  till  the  middle  of  June  that  the  first  hint  of  direc- 
tion came  to  her,  the  first  faint  summons  bidding  her  live 
anew.  And  as  once  before,  in  the  life  that  was  now  dead  and 
discarded,  it  came  in  the  shape  of  a  letter  from  Aunt  Perdy. 

"  I  am  passing,"  she  wrote,  "  through  a  time  of  hideous, 
lonely  suffering.  The  powers  of  darkness  in  the  heavens 
above  are  doing  all  they  can  to  kill  my  heart  and  brain.  It 
is  dreadful  to  be  like  me — open  to  invisible  influences;  for  by 
the  same  means  I  am  both  aided  and  hindered.  Pray  for 
Auntie,  whose  heart  is  almost  breaking,  and  who  is  presently 
without  love  or  hope  of  any  kind,  and  feels  miserably  conquered. 
Come  to  see  her  if  you  possibly  can." 

To  this  Joanna  sent  no  answer,  but  she  moved  out  of  her 
lethargy  and  made  simple  preparations  for  a  journey  to  Italy. 
To  raise  the  money  she  found  she  must  sell  some  of  her 
treasures,  but  she  did  so  without  a  pang.  Not  that  there  was 
any  excitement  or  expectancy  in  her  as  there  had  been  when  she 
responded  to  her  aunt's  first  summons.  Now  she  was  simply 
obedient  to  the  seeming  accident  through  which  her  new, 
untried  life  could  stir.  Her  will  no  longer  rose  hard  and  pos- 
sessive, driving  her  hither  and  thither.  Her  will  now  was 


372  OPENTHEDOOR 

merely  the  helm  by  which  her  frail  bark  might  once  more  be 
steered  to  float  upon  a  stream  of  life.  But  what  other  power 
had  urged  her  to  respond,  whither  the  stream  might  bear 
her,  she  did  not  ask. 

Not  that  even  now  she  was  quite  beyond  the  reach  of  a 
deathly  backwash.  In  the  late  afternoon  of  the  day  before 
her  departure,  when  nothing  remained  to  do,  she  found  her- 
self overwhelmed  once  more  by  the  old  sadness. 

There  was  the  deep  chair  in  which  Louis  and  she  had  so 
often  kissed  and  held  each  other:  here  was  a  case  she  had 
come  upon  while  packing — full  of  his  letters  and  drawings: 
there  on  the  mantelpiece  was  the  Tanagra  figurine  with  blown 
out  drapery  which  he  had  brought  her  from  Paris,  declaring 
it  was  like  her.  All  the  little  room  spoke  of  him  and  of 
what  he  stood  for.  And  mingling  with  these  passionate 
memories  were  thoughts  of  Roddy  who  was  dead,  of  Ollie 
who  was  soon  going  to  Canada  to  make  the  third  in  a  patched- 
up  reconciliation  between  her  parents.  Wrenched  with  sob- 
bing she  lay  back  in  the  shadowed  room.  She  cried  a  long 
time,  so  that  when  at  length  she  was  done,  the  evening  had 
drawn  grayly  in.  But  she  did  not  stir  to  light  the  lamp,  and 
even  when  rain  began  to  fall,  beating  more  and  more  heavily 
against  the  black  window-panes,  she  had  no  thought  of  draw- 
ing the  curtains.  There  seemed  no  reason  why  she  should 
ever  move  again.  From  shaking  storm  she  had  lapsed  into 
stillness.  Never  before  had  she  been  sunk  so  deep  in  the 
blessed  wells  of  nothingness. 

How  many  minutes  or  hours  passed  then,  she  did  not  know. 
But  the  room  had  long  been  quite  dark,  when  a  sound  from 
downstairs  made  her  slip  free  of  her  abandonment  in  the  low 
chair  and  stand  alert  listening.  Her  ears  served  her  so  beau- 
tifully at  that  moment  that  she  could  separate  each  from 
each — as  an  embroidress  might  separate  a  skein  of  colored 
silken  threads — all  the  faint  vibrations  of  sound  in  the  house. 
She  heard  Trissie  open  the  door  and  parley  with  a  visitor. 
It  was  impossible  to  distinguish  words,  but  she  knew  imme- 
diately that  Lawrence's  was  the  low  voice  asking  if  she  was 
in,  and  she  could  supply  the  answer  in  Trissie's  doubtful 
murmur. 

The  next  moment  she  was  leaning  over  the  wide-topped  old 
banister  of  the  staircase. 

"  I'm  here,"  she  heard  her  own  voice  assuring  Trissie.    And 


OPENTHEDOOR  373 

almost  before  she  had  spoken,  there  was  Lawrence  stand- 
ing before  her. 

On  the  little  dark  landing  they  could  see  each  other's  faces 
as  pale  blurs  only. 

"  How  wet  you  are!  "  she  exclaimed  as  he  touched  her 
hand  with  his,  all  cold  with  the  rain,  and  she  could  smell  the 
rain-soaked  wool  of  his  clothes. 

"  Yes.     It  is  pouring." 

He  followed  her  into  the  room  while  she  groped  for  matches 
and  lighted  the  lamp.  And  now,  instead  of  her  ears,  it  was 
her  hands,  that  moved  with  a  new  perfection  and  certitude 
that  almost  frightened  her. 

The  wick  caught  evenly  all  round,  and  as  the  twin  flames 
sprang  up  bright  and  smokeless  in  the  funnel,  Lawrence's 
eyes  were  upon  her.  Her  face,  she  knew  then,  must  be  rav- 
aged and  unsightly  from  her  long  crying.  At  any  former  time 
of  her  life — above  all  with  Louis — she  would  have  shaded  the 
unmerciful  light  hastily,  turning  her  face  aside  the  while. 
But  this  evening  with  Lawrence  she  had  no  more  impulse  to 
conceal  it  than  she  had  to  display  it  for  his  sympathy.  Rais- 
ing her  head  she  returned  his  look  starkly,  and  thus  they  both 
stood  for  a  long  second  with  the  revealing  lamp  between  them. 

"  Yes?  "  Joanna  asked  him.  That  he  would  only  have  come 
to  her  on  some  urgent  errand,  she  knew  of  herself.  And  if 
she  had  not  known  it,  his  white,  fixed  face  would  have  told 
her  that  something  decisive  had  happened  to  him. 

But  he  had  seen  her  now,  and  in  his  eyes  his  own  trouble 
made  way  for  hers. 

"  What's  wrong?  "  he  demanded,  instead  of  replying  to  her 
question. 

"  Nothing  is  wrong.  I've  been  crying.  I'm  all  right  now. 
I'm  going  to  Italy  to-morrow." 

It  seemed  odd  to  her  that  he  should  show  no  surprise. 

"  To  Italy,  you  are  going?  "  he  said.  .  .  .  I'm  going  away 
too.  That's  what  I  came  to-night  to  say." 

Joanna  was  the  one  to  be  astonished.  His  way  of  speaking 
was  strange. 

"  Where  are  you  going?  "  she  asked  wondering. 

"  I  don't  know  yet,  nor  for  how  long.  North,  probably. 
It  really  doesn't  matter.  Though  I  think  I'm  about  due  a 
holiday." 

"  I'm   afraid   you  are   ill.     You  look   ill,"   said   Joanna, 


374  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

anxiously.  There  was  that  kind  of  sharpness  in  his  features 
which  often  presages  severe  illness. 

But  he  assured  her  brusquely  that  it  was  only  a  cold  hang- 
ing about  him. 

"  How  long  will  you  be  in  Italy?  " 

She  did  not  know.  She  begged  him  to  hurry  home  and 
change  his  clothes. 

"  Good-bye,  then,"  Lawrence  said,  holding  out  his  hand — "  It 
was  mostly  to  tell  you  I  was  going  away  that  I  came.  I 
couldn't  help  coming  and  now  I  feel  you  are  going  South  for 
the  same  reason  that  I  am  going  North.  You  have  come  to 
an  end — really  come  to  an  end  at  last.  Is  it  so?  " 

Joanna  nodded.  She  was  full  of  wonder,  yet  it  seemed 
natural  that  he  should  know  about  her. 

"  I  have  been  at  an  end  now  for  ages,"  she  said.  "  The 
thing  is,  is  there  any  new  beginning?  " 

"  For  you  I  feel  there  must  be:  for  me  I  see  none,"  re- 
plied Lawrence.  "I'm  simply  down  and  out;  last  time  we 
talked  I  was  glib  enough.  I  thought  I  knew  what  it  was.  But 
I  didn't." 

Would  he  stay?  Joanna  asked  him  shyly.  Would  he  sit 
down  a  while?  Would  talking  be  any  use?  But  he  shook 
his  head,  so  she  went  downstairs  to  the  door  with  him. 

The  yard  was  spouting  with  rain,  and  rivulets  of  rain  coursed 
under  the  archway.  As  Lawrence  and  she  clasped  hands 
Joanna  loved  the  sound  of  it. 

"  Endings  have  to  be  gone  through  by  each  one  alone," 
said  he,  "  but  I  doubt  if  ever  a  true  beginning  was  solitary." 
And  with  that  he  was  gone  into  the  dark,  slanting  curtain  of 
the  rain. 

As  she  went  slowly  back  to  her  room,  she  dared  hardly 
believe  in  the  virgin  jet  of  promise  that  bubbled  tinily,  limpidly 
up  through  her  own  nothingness. 


CHAPTER  V 


"T  TOLD  you,"  persevered  the  voice  of  Irene's  holiday  gover- 

J.  ness,  "  that  some  seeds,  and  some  fruits  too,  have 
wings.  Can  either  of  you  tell  me  the  name  of  a  tree  that  has  a 
winged  fruit?  Come,  Carola!  You  try!  The  rain  might  go  off 
if  you  would  stop  looking  at  it.  ...  " 

At  one  end  of  the  long,  country  drawing-room  she  sat 
with  her  two  little  girl  pupils,  filling  in  the  slow  half-hour  be- 
fore tea  with  a  Nature  talk.  At  the  other  end  Irene  was 
having  an  argument  with  Aunt  Georgina.  And  the  murmur 
of  the  children  at  their  lessons  made  a  kind  of  droning 
counterpoint  for  the  more  acrimonious  voices  of  their  mother 
and  grandmother. 

"  This  is  just  a  fad  of  yours,  Irene,"  declared  the  elder 
speaker  inclemently,  "  about  the  children  needing  sea-air  in 
August.  I  never  heard  such  rubbish.  Compared  with  these 
hills  the  sea  is  a  nasty  bilious  place." 

It  was  now  two  years  since  the  widowed  Lady  Wester- 
muir  had  left  Edinburgh  and  come  to  live  at  the  small  Perth- 
shire estate  from  which  her  husband  had  taken  his  judicial 
title:  and  in  this  June  afternoon  (the  very  same  afternoon 
upon  which  her  niece  Joanna  was  speeding  South  on  the  first 
wind  of  chance)  she  was  seated  by  a  window  that  looked 
out  upon  the  Grampians. 

"  A  mere  doctor's  fad !  "  she  pursued.  "  They  would  be 
far  better  here  with  me  till  October.  Broadstairs,  too,  of  all 
places!  " 

While  her  daughter  crouched  shivering  by  the  fire,  the  old 
woman  herself  had  made  no  further  concession  to  the  weather 
than  by  having  thrust  her  feet  into  a  deer-skin  hassock. 
She  sat  steely  and  erect  on  a  straight-backed  chair  before 
her  desk  in  the  deep  window-bow  that  was  her  favorite  post, 
and  this  though  the  mountain  prospect  that  she  loved  was 
quite  gone  in  mist.  Mist,  chill,  heavy  and  sopping  on  this 
day  of  summer,  had  left  nothing  for  the  disconsolate  eye  to 

375 


376  OPENTHEDOOR 

rest  upon  save  a  drenched  garden  terrace,  some  shrubs  weighted 
with  the  rain,  and  a  broken  regiment  of  tiger-lilies.  "  My  dear 
Mother,"  returned  Irene  in  a  tone  of  martyrdom  which  her 
mother  guessed  was  due  less  to  maternal  anxiety  than  to  her 
grievance  at  having  had  to  leave  London  in  the  middle  of  the 
season,  "  you  surely  don't  imagine  that  /  like  our  summer 
arrangements.  But  you  see  for  yourself  that  Carola  has  had  one 
cold  upon  another  since  we  came  here.  And  after  bronchitis 
so  lately  ..." 

"...  Look!  " — went  on  the  persistent  undertone  of  the 
lesson.  "  This  is  a  seed  of  the  ash — a  single  seed  in  a  sheath 
which  is  really  a  wing.  It  is  called  a  samara.  See  the  twist 
that  helps  it  to  fly!  And  this  is  a  sycamore  fruit  with  two 
wings." 

"  Can  it  really  fly,  Miss  Frew?  "  asked  Carola,  the  elder 
child,  suddenly  taking  some  interest,  "like  a  bird?" 

"  It  can  whirl  along  on  the  wind  for  miles  and  miles." 

"  The  child  doesn't  go  out  enough,"  announced  Carola's 
grandmother. 

"...  Suppose  it  fell  on  a  stone,  Miss  Frew?  " 

"  Then  if  it  lived  long  enough,  it  would  have  to  wait  for 
another  wind  to  blow  it  to  a  place  where  it  could  sprout  and 
take  root  ..." 

"  Would  you  have  her  go  out  on  a  day  like  this?  " 

"  Most  certainly  I  should.  To  hear  you  one  would  hardly 
think  you  were  a  Scotswoman  at  all."  A  fine,  metallic  thread 
of  contempt  was  one  of  the  strands  in  the  withered  old  voice. 

"...  Suppose  the  wind  blew  it  on  to  another  stone,  and 
and  other  stone — lots  more  stones,  Miss  Frew?  Or  into  the 
sea?  ..." 

"  I  don't  hold," — Aunt  Georgina  still  spoke — "  with  your 
doctor's  fiddle-faddle  about  bronchitis  and  sea-air  and  non- 
sense. However,  I  see  your  mind  is  made  up,  and  after  all 
they  are  only  my  grand-children,  not  my  children!  " 

"...  For  one  seed  that  sprouts,  millions  and  millions 
only  rot  every  year." 

"  Do  billions  and  billions  rot?  "  asked  Phyllis,  the  younger 
child,  speaking  for  the  first  time. 

"  I  suppose  so." 

"  And  trillions  and  trillions,  Miss  Frew?  ..." 

"  I  dislike  having  the  house  to  myself  in  the  autumn,  and 
most  people  have  made  their  plans  by  now.  Of  course  I 


OPENTHEDOOR  377 

might  ask  one  of  your  cousins,  Sholto's  girls.  It  has  been  in 
my  mind  for  some  time  to  ask  Joanna.  Joanna  used  to  be 
fond  of  the  country,  and  has  no  home  of  her  own  to  go  to 
these  days.  That  is  one  thing  I  will  say  for  your  poor  Aunt 
Juley — she  brought  her  children  up  to  be  hardy.  I  remem- 
ber how  they  used  to  run  about  in  all  weathers  like  so  many 
young  colts.  Yes,  I  shall  tell  Joanna  to  come  in  August  and 
see  her  old  Aunt." 

n 

At  the  moment  when  Aunt  Georgina's  invitation  was  being 
fastened  in  its  envelope,  Joanna,  a  little  dazed  by  her  long 
journey,  stood  once  more  by  the  widely  spilled  water  of  Torre 
del  Lago.  She  stood  looking  across  the  white  expanse  that 
seven  years  before  had  marked  the  turning  of  her  life  from 
dream  to  reality;  clearly  she  now  knew  that  turning  for  what 
it  was — but  a  part  of  her  inevitable  progression  towards  death. 
She  had  lived  out  the  dream,  had  embraced  the  reality,  and 
now  death  was  fulfilled  in  her.  She  saw  that,  however  different 
might  have  been  the  circumstances  of  her  travelling  in  it,  for 
her  at  least  there  could  have  been  no  other  progression.  Now 
it  might  be  that  death  was  her  portion,  or  it  might  be  that 
out  of  her  very  recognition  and  acceptance  of  death,  a  new  life 
might  spring.  It  came  to  her  that  the  world  was  walked  by 
thousands  who  were  dead  and  whose  true  deathliness  lay  in 
their  continued  assertion  of  life.  Such  life  surely  was  mere 
putrefaction,  and  from  putrefaction  came  no  new  life  worth 
having.  The  phoenix  could  not  rise  anew  but  from  its  acknow- 
ledged ashes.  Anyhow  she  relinquished  all  claim  to  the  old  life. 
She  rested  in  the  void  and  was  content  to  bide  her  time  without 
a  single  defiant  reaching  forth. 

And  while  Joanna  climbed  the  steep  winding  path  to  the 
cottage  (since  her  last  visit  there  was  no  change  in  the  hill- 
side save  that  now  on  every  hand  the  cherry  trees  declared 
themselves  from  among  the  olives  by  their  brighter  fruit) 
Aunt  Georgina — in  her  old  age  sometimes  generous  on  second 
thoughts — was  re-opening  her  invitation  and  inserting  a 
cheque. 

m 

Though  the  door  stood  open,  Aunt  Perdy  was  not  in  the 
cottage.  Nor  was  she  in  the  garden.  Aurora  however — 


378  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

larger  and  handsomer  than  ever,  with  two  babies  grabbing 
at  her  skirts — was  there  cutting  artichokes,  and  upon  catching 
sight  of  the  unlocked- for- visitor,  she  uttered  a  cry  of  mingled 
surprise  and  welcome. 

"  But  what!  Of  course  she  remembered  the  Signorina 
Scozzese!  But  the  misfortune!  The  poor  Signora  del  Monte, 
(it  was  by  this  name  that  Aunt  Perdy  was  known  to  the 
district)  taken  ill  suddenly,  had  only  the  day  before  been 
fetched  away  by  the  other  Signora,  her  sister — doubtless  also 
well  known  to  the  Signorina — who  had  at  Turin  the  fine  house 
and  the  distinguished  family!  At  Turin  for  certain  the  Sig- 
nora del  Monte  would  be  well  cared  for.  Nor  did  Aurora 
expect  her  return  for  some  weeks.  What  was  to  be  done?  " 

Joanna  did  nothing  and  suggested  nothing.  She  merely 
stayed  quietly  on  at  the  cottage.  While  she  felt  no  particular 
relief  at  her  Aunt's  absence,  neither  did  she  feel  any  disappoint- 
ment; and  Aurora  seeing  this,  fell  in  with  it  unquestioningly. 
She  waited  on  the  niece  as  she  had  waited  on  the  Aunt,  as 
a  matter  of  course;  and  Joanna  with  her  return  ticket  safe, 
was  able  to  eke  out  over  some  six  weeks  money  that  in 
London  would  hardly  have  lasted  for  one. 

Between  the  garden  and  the  orchard,  with  eggs  and  an 
occasional  fowl  from  Aurora,  she  found  food  enough,  and 
other  needs  she  had  none.  Occupation  there  was  for  her  in 
plenty.  She  washed  and  mended  whatever  of  Aunt  Perdy's 
she  could  find  that  needed  repair,  put  the  cottage  in  shining 
order,  weeded  and  dug  in  the  garden,  and  between  whiles  she 
lay  for  hours  at  a  time  on  the  garden's  highest  ridge  from 
where  she  could  gaze  upon  the  wide,  sparkling  sweep  of  the 
sea.  Often  then  she  remembered  those  sea-going  ships  upon 
the  Clyde  that  had  nearly  drawn  the  childish  heart  out  of 
her  breast.  But  up  till  now  all  her  adventures  had  been 
inland.  Only  now  was  she  loosed — if  so  be  the  capacity  lay 
in  her  at  all — for  the  true  voyage. 

But  the  will  to  shape  circumstances  or  to  force  an  issue 
was  gone  from  her.  She  had  become  submissive  to  the  uncom- 
prehended  current  of  events.  She  did  not  grieve  or  rejoice. 
She  did  not  live.  She  only  waited. 

And  when  Aunt  Georgina's  letter  reached  her  she  accepted 
the  invitation.  The  wind  had  blown  her  South,  now  the 
wind  was  to  blow  her  North.  Free  as  a  flying  seed,  she  still 
was  as  is  a  seed  at  the  mercy  of  the  winds.  When  would  she 


OPENTHEDOOR  379 

be  driven  to  the  place  where  she  might  strike  her  roots  and  at 
last  raise  her  leaf  and  her  bud?  She  recalled  Mr.  Moon's 
legend  of  the  bird  of  paradise.  It  was  one  thing  to  die  to  the 
world,  to  devour  the  sweet  spices  and  so  for  ever  lose  your 
foothold.  It  was  another  to  find  a  resting  place  in  some  new 
way  of  life.  She  could  still  feel  the  lake  swallows  digging  into 
her  palms  with  their  frantic  claws.  But  of  what  use  was  their 
escape  to  them,  if  escape  were  all?  Was  Lawrence  too,  she 
wondered,  without  foothold  in  the  world?  It  seemed  to  her  that 
for  a  man  the  whole  scheme  of  things  must  be  different.  Yet 
he  too,  as  she  could  not  forget,  had  conceived  of  his  life  as 
a  seed  foiled  of  its  consummation. 

IV 

August  was  nearly  over,  when  one  evening  she  stepped  down 
from  the  train  at  a  Highland  junction  to  be  driven  ten  miles 
along  wet,  bog-scented  roads  to  Aunt  Georgina's  house  which 
she  then  saw  for  the  first  time. 

It  stood,  white-washed  and  four-square  on  its  hill,  with  no 
creepers  to  break  its  bareness — a  typical  Perthshire  dwelling 
of  the  severer  sort,  set  in  good,  though  not  showy  grounds. 
And  on  its  wide  semi-circular  steps,  confronting  the  terrace 
and  the  watery  sunset,  stood  its  mistress  awaiting  her  guest. 

Joanna,  who  first  caught  sight  of  the  straight,  unmistakable 
figure  from  a  turn  in  the  drive,  was  surprised  by  a  familiar 
tremor.  Since  her  mother's  funeral,  when  all  family  relations 
were  abnormal,  she  had  not  seen  her  aunt;  nor  had  she  slept 
under  her  roof  oftener  than  twice  in  the  last  ten  years.  And 
if,  in  middle  age,  Lady  Westermuir  had  been  a  person  to  strike 
terror  into  young  bosoms,  in  old  age  she  was  even  more 
intimidating.  True,  at  that  moment,  in  the  yellow  light  that 
beat  up  against  her  from  the  wet  gravel,  turning  her  widow's 
cap  with  its  precise  goffering  into  a  molding  of  pale  brass,  she 
might  from  the  waist  downward  have  stood  to  a  sculptor  for 
the  figure  of  Charity,  the  folds  of  her  skirts — black  now  instead 
of  prune  colored — flowed  out  so  generously  at  either  side, 
ballooning  slightly  in  the  air  as  she  advanced.  But  no  Caritas 
ever  kept  shoulders  so  erect  as  these  under  the  brown  and 
scarlet  Paisley  shawl:  and  the  triumphant  clash  of  cymbals 
would  better  than  any  more  Christian  music  have  expressed 
these  leonine  features. 

Yet  Joanna's  fear  proved  after  all  to  be  but  the  ghost  of  a 


38o  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

bygone  subjection.  Being  faced  with  its  object  it  passed  so 
wholly  that  it  only  served  to  mark  the  distance  she  had  tra- 
velled. For  without  doubt  she  emerged  unshaken  from  the 
stately  embrace,  the  condescending  greeting  and  the  critical 
old  stare. 

Two  days  later  the  morning  gave  promise  of  sunshine — 
even  of  heat — after  a  spell  of  rain,  and  Aunt  Georgina  de- 
cided that  she  would  pay  a  call  upon  one  of  her  more  distant 
neighbors,  a  retired  sheriff,  whose  house  lay  a  few  miles  from 
Perth  on  the  further  side.  As  she  had  not  visited  there  before, 
a  map  was  produced  and  laid  open  on  the  breakfast  table. 
And  that  her  younger  eyes  might  be  made  use  of,  Joanna 
was  seated  before  it. 

It  was  only  then  that  there  came  to  her  as  a  perfect  astonish- 
ment, what  she  must  long  before  have  known,  had  her  childish 
geography  not  been  of  the  haziest  and  never  amended — Wester- 
muir  lay  within  twenty  miles  of  Duntarvie! 

Incredible  as  it  may  seem,  she  had  never  thought  of  Dun- 
tarvie as  having  a  place  upon  the  map.  Deeply  shaken  she 
traced  the  district  with  her  forefinger.  Duntarvie.  And  close 
to  it  upon  the  printed  map — Drumwharrie,  the  farm  where 
Alec  Peddie  had  lived.  Before  her  eyes  were  the  names  of 
villages,  streams  and  hills,  which  till  now  had  seemed  names 
in  a  tale. 

The  cob  had  gone  lame,  and  Lady  Westmuir  did  not  con- 
sider the  small  pony  equal  to  her  weight  upon  the  steeper 
hills;  but  the  fine  day  was  not  to  be  missed,  so  she  would  go 
by  train.  If  her  niece  really  wanted  to  re-visit  Duntarvie, 
why  not  do  so  that  day?  They  could  travel  together  as  far 
as  Perth. 

So  it  was.  At  Perth  Joanna  saw  her  aunt  drive  off  in  a 
hired  carriage,  and  herself  returning  to  the  booking-office, 
she  took  her  ticket  to  the  village  from  which  Duntarvie  was 
but  three  miles  distant. 

Though  she  had  nearly  an  hour  to  wait  for  her  train,  she 
could  not  leave  the  magic  enclosure  of  the  station.  She  was 
filled  there — for  the  first  time  these  many  days — with  the 
strangest  expectancy;  and  even  apart  from  this,  she  found 
pleasure  in  the  bustling  holiday  sight.  Kilted  men  with  guns 
swung  past  her,  followed  by  excited  retriever  dogs.  Anglers 
in  shabby  homespuns  carrying  their  rods  and  baskets,  moved 
more  philosophically.  Everywhere  trolleys  heaped  with  kit- 


OPENTHEDOOR  381 

bags  and  golf-clubs  blocked  the  way.  Children  clutching  green 
butterfly  nets  hurried  before  their  parents  across  the  big, 
black  iron  bridge.  They  were  fearful  lest  they  should  not 
find  their  platform  in  this  widespread  network  of  arrival  and 
departure.  How  well  Joanna  remembered  that  trembling  lest 
the  others  should  lag  and  keep  one  back,  and  so  one's  heart  be 
broken  by  the  sight  of  a  missed  train.  Duntarvie,  Duntarvie! 
Would  the  stream  still  be  flowing  clear  brown,  and  its  furry 
stones  be  sheltering  the  spotted  trout?  Would  the  heron 
still  have  his  nest  upon  the  island  in  the  upper  pond?  Would 
the  blaeberries  be  ripe  and  the  larches  heavy  with  their  swing- 
ing tassels? 

In  the  refreshment  room  to  which  she  was  driven  by  a  slight 
dizziness,  memory  was  further  assailed  by  a  vision  of  her 
mother's  unslept  but  ardent  face  of  travel.  It  had  always  been 
part  of  the  ritual  of  the  long  journey  from  Glasgow  that  Juley 
should  take  her  children  here  to  drink  tea  out  of  these  thick, 
white  cups  that  had  the  thrilling  word  Perth  emblazoned  across 
them  upon  a  blue  strap. 

Having  ordered  tea,  she  went  to  a  small  table  opposite 
the  entrance.  Above  that  was  the  clock;  and  even  while  she 
raised  the  cup  to  her  lips,  she  could  hardly  take  her  eyes  from 
the  slow,  jerking,  minute  hand  upon  the  dial.  Only  twenty 
minutes  now,  and  she  would  be  on  her  way! 

A  traveller  came  pushing  himself  in  between  the  swing 
doors.  He  wore  a  sporting  suit  of  a  loud  and  gay  pattern  of 
tweed,  woven  perhaps  in  Scotland,  but  destined  for  no  Scots- 
man to  wear.  And  slung  from  his  shoulders  was  a  bulging 
ruck-sack. 

"Carl!     Carl  Nilsson!    My  dear,  dear  Carl!  " 

Impetuously  Joanna  started  from  her  seat  and  ran  toward 
the  newcomer,  all  the  other  people  in  the  restaurant  looking 
up  to  watch  the  meeting. 

Strangers  will  always  watch  with  a  good  deal  of  interest 
what  is  clearly  a  chance  meeting.  On  this  occasion,  one  at 
least  of  the  onlookers — a  stout  woman  of  unimaginative  ap- 
pearance enough — was  so  anxious  not  to  miss  a  single  clue, 
that  she  could  spare  no  glance  for  the  lump  of  sugar  which  she 
held  suspended  half  way  to  her  cup.  She  dropped  it  with  a 
clatter  on  the  marble  table-top:  and  even  then  did  not  take 
her  eyes  from  Joanna's  face. 

Indeed,  Carl's  queer  clothes  and  foreign  looks  notwithstand- 


382  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

ing,  it  seemed  to  be  Joanna  rather  than  he  that  held  the  atten- 
tion of  the  onlookers.  Quite  apart  from  dress  and  feature, 
Joanna  had  lately  got  that  in  her  presence  which  put  her  apart 
and  set  people  speculating.  She  looked  young  (not  more, 
decided  the  stout  observer,  than  twenty-five)  yet  she  had  al- 
ready discarded  that  density  which  is  peculiarly  the  mark  of 
youthful  flesh.  Had  she  perhaps  just  recovered  from  an  illness? 
That  seemed  ruled  out  by  the  bounding  movement  of  greeting 
with  which  she  had  run  forward.  Neither  was  she  particu- 
larly thin.  Yet  there  was  a  difference,  a  rarity — something 
that  marked  her  out. 

And  how  came  Carl  to  be  in  Perth? 

And  how  Joanna? 

The  better  to  talk,  they  sat  down  at  her  table  and  she  told 
him  briefly  of  her  doings.  It  was  more  than  two  years  since 
they  had  met,  and  Joanna  could  feel  her  friend's  clever  eyes 
noting  the  changes  in  her.  In  him,  except  that  the  last  traces 
of  red  had  vanished  from  the  gray  of  his  beard,  she  could  see 
no  difference. 

When  she  seemed  to  have  no  more  to  say,  he  told  her  that 
he  was  even  now  on  his  way  to  meet  Lawrence  Urquhart. 
Lawrence  had  been  ill.  She  had  not  heard?  Well,  he  was 
better  now  or  nearly  so,  and  together  they  were  going  to  make 
what  Carl  called  a  "  footing  tour  "  in  Fife.  Carl  had  long 
wished  to  see  the  Fife  villages  which  were  said  to  be  like  vil- 
lages in  the  Low  Countries.  Lawrence  was  also  to  see  them 
now  for  the  first  time.  .  .  .  Cupar,  Falkland,  Auchtermuchty, 
Strathmiglo!  .  .  .  such  promising  names  as  they  had!  Did 
Joanna  know  any  of  them?  She  did?  Good!  What  now  of 
the  "  ancient,  royal  burgh  "  of  Auchtermuchty?  It  was  there 
he  was  going  to  meet  Lawrence  that  afternoon.  Was  it  a 
place  to  be  sketched?  Had  it,  as  the  guide-book  assured  him, 
a  beautiful  town  hall? 

After  having  declared  eagerly  that  she  well  knew  Auchter- 
muchty, Joanna  discovered  that  she  could  tell  Carl  nothing 
definite  about  it.  It  lay  little  more  than  five  miles  from  Dun- 
tarvie,  so  that  she  had  been  there  many  a  time.  She  remem- 
bered the  horse-shows  there,  the  crowded  country  races  her 
father  had  enjoyed  in  spite  of  his  principles,  the  great  July 
Fair  where  as  children  they  had  crunched  bright  pink  sugar 
hearts  and  wondered  if  they  would  be  kidnapped  by  gypsies. 
But  as  to  the  size  of  the  town,  its  situation,  its  architecture— 


OPEN   THE    DOOR  383 

as  to  anything  indeed  which  might  have  been  of  use  to  Carl 
and  Lawrence  she  was  so  ignorant  that  she  began  to  wonder 
if  in  reality  she  had  ever  been  there  at  all.  She  was  all  the 
more  anxious  to  go  to  Duntarvie — to  make  sure  beyond  a 
doubt  whether  a  certain  white-washed  house  and  red-tiled  stead- 
ing had  once  stood  in  a  fold  of  moorland. 

But  in  the  middle  of  her  talk  of  Duntarvie,  she  became  aware 
that  Carl  was  looking  at  her  with  a  thoughtfulness  not  caused 
by  her  words. 

"  Meet  us  at  Auchtermuchty  to-morrow,"  he  said  as  she 
faltered  into  silence.  "  See  your  Duntarvie  if  you  must.  Look 
your  fill.  I  see  you  have  to  go.  But  get  your  memories 
over  and  be  done  with  them.  Stay  the  night  at  your  village, 
and  in  the  morning  walk  across  and  join  us.  We  shall  wait 
for  you.  Here  is  the  name  of  our  inn.  But  you  will  probably 
find  me  sketching  the  town  hall  and  Lawremce  looking  for 
Roman  rubbish." 

He  watched  her  closley. 

"  I  told  my  Aunt  that  I  should  be  back  in  time  for  dinner 
to-night." 

"  O!  La,  la!  The  Aunt!  "  laughed  Carl.  "  You  send  her 
a  telegram." 

"  Do  you  think  I  should?  But  truly,  Carl?  "  Her  whole 
being  seemed  arrested,  waiting  for  his  answer. 

"  I  have  suggested  it,  perhaps  wrongly.  The  matter  is 
one  you  must  decide  for  yourself,"  Carl  replied  after  a  moment. 

"  But  I  cannot  decide  anything  these  days.  You  must 
help  me,  Carl.  Do,  please  help  me!  "  she  begged  him  most 
earnestly. 

"  Are  you  a  free  woman?  " 

At  his  so  abrupt  question  a  very  billow  of  blood  swept  over 
her  from  head  to  foot,  but  she  raised  her  suffused  eyes  and 
faced  him  bravely. 

"  Yes,"  she  said.  "  I'm  free — quite,  quite  free  .  .  .  but 
I  know  nothing  .  .  .  and  I  am  so  weak.  I  know  nothing, 
nothing!  I  can't  tell  what  I  should  do.  I'm  blown  by  any 
wind.  There  seems  no  life  in  me." 

Carl  took  her  shaking  hand  and  patted  it  kindly. 

"  Go,  send  the  telegram,"  he  bade  her  as  if  it  were  a  child 
he  spoke  to.  "  I'm  heartily  glad  of  what  you  tell  me.  More 
glad  than  I  can  say.  Go  send  the  telegram.  I  will  meet  you  at 
the  train.  It  seems  we  go  so  far  together." 


384  OPEN    THE   DOOR 

Joanna  lost  no  time,  but  she  was  not  flurried.  In  spite  of 
her  grave  face,  her  steps  to  the  telegraph  office  were  set  almost 
to  a  dancing  rhythm.  Dear  Carl!  Good,  dear  Carl.  What 
had  she  ever  done  to  deserve  such  a  friend? 

A  slight,  but  not  a  painful  constraint  arose  between  them 
upon  the  short  journey.  They  had  the  musty  compartment 
of  the  little  puffing  train  to  themselves,  and  she  was  hoping 
that  Carl  would  tell  her  more  of  Lawrence  and  his  illness. 
Nothing  however  seemed  farther  from  Carl's  intention.  Nor 
could  she  bring  herself  to  question  him  till  the  moment  of 
parting  was  almost  upon  them.  Instead,  therefore,  they  spoke 
of  Joanna's  work  in  London,  of  changes  in  Glasgow,  of  Phemie's 
expected  visit  home  that  October.  Yet  Joanna  was  happier 
than  she  knew;  and  as  the  train  came  nearer  and  nearer  to 
Duntarvie,  she  grew  eager  in  pointing  out  each  well-remem- 
bered landmark.  There  was  the  tower  which  some  people 
said  had  not  been  built  by  the  Picts:  there,  the  church: 
there,  the  queer,  pointed  hill  that  wore  its  fir  woods  as  though 
they  were  a  cloak  and  a  plume  of  feathers,  so  that  she  had  al- 
ways thought  it  looked  like  a  highway  robber.  Every  moment 
established  her  belief  that  Duntarvie  was  a  real  place  after 
all,  and  her  companion's  praise  of  the  countryside  gave  her 
keen  joy.  These  were  hills  and  woods  and  rivers  that  she 
herself  would  never  be  able  to  see  with  the  painter's  eye,  but 
she  was  loverly  proud  to  have  their  beauty  vindicated  by  one 
who  could. 

They  were  jogging  slowly  into  the  station  which  seemed 
even  smaller  than  her  memory  of  it,  when  at  last  she  turned 
from  the  window  and  spoke  with  timid  haste.  Carl  had 
said  Lawrence  had  been  ill.  Did  he  mean  that  he  had  been 
seriously  ill? 

Carl  replied  with  a  certain  dryness  that  this  was  precisely 
what  he  had  meant.  Lawrence,  he  said,  had  quite  unexpec- 
tedly turned  up  at  his  studio  in  Glasgow — early  one  morning 
in  June  it  was — straight  from  a  night  journey.  He  was  then 
suffering  from  a  chill  which  was  bad  enough  to  account  for 
the  sharp  illness  that  had  followed.  But  what  had  made  Carl 
more  anxious  was  the  wretched  slowness  of  the  convalescence. 
There  had  been  one  unaccountable  relapse  after  another — 
the  whole  thing,  a  regular  break  in  health  rather  than  any 
specific  illness.  In  his  last  letter,  however,  Lawrence  had  de- 
clared himself  fit  for  the  "  footing "  tour.  This  sunshine, 


OPENTHEDOOR  385 

if  only  it  would  last— and  really  today  it  looked  like  it- 
should  help  to  set  him  up. 

There  was  no  time  for  more.  A  warm  grip  of  Carl's  hand, 
a  glance — grave  and  trustful  on  her  part,  smiling  and  kindly 
on  his,  a  renewal  of  her  promise  to  meet  them  without  fail 
the  next  day,  and  Joanna  was  alone.  She  watched  the  tail 
of  the  train  carrying  Carl  off  till  it  disappeared  at  lesiure 
round  a  distant  hill-corner,  then  crossing  the  rails  by  the 
footboard  she  walked  up  the  lane,  past  the  round  tower 
where  an  iron  ring  for  the  necks  of  felons  was  still  fixed  at  a 
height  for  misery  in  the  stones,  and  so  on  into  the  village. 

v 

To  her  delight  it  was  just  as  she  remembered  it — a  little 
smaller  perhaps  as  the  station  had  been,  but  otherwise  un- 
changed. The  single,  wide  street  still  straggled  unevenly 
downhill,  keeping  many  levels  in  one  width  of  its  close-set 
cobbles.  And  there,  perched  on  its  mound  at  the  top  of  the 
village,  was  Tweedie's,  the  post-office  and  principal  shop.  It 
too  looked  the  same  is  it  had  always  looked.  The  same  stiff 
bunches  of  boots  and  breeches  stuck  out  from  its  dark  door- 
way. The  same  smell  of  cheese  and  porpoise  boot-laces, 
paraffin  and  bacon  came  forth  from  it.  Not  before  she  entered 
(and  Joanna  did  enter,  for  in  Tweedie's  she  knew  she  would 
learn  whatever  was  to  be  known  of  Duntarvie  and  its  present 
owners)  would  she  have  discovered  that  old  sandy-haired 
Tweedie  was  dead,  and  that  young  sandy-haired  Tweedie, 
already  a  bald-headed  man  was  the  master. 

But  this  was  as  nothing  to  the  news  of  Duntarvie  that  she 
brought  with  her  out  of  that  cavern  of  boots  and  breeches. 
During  the  last  eighteen  years,  Tweedie  had  said,  the  house 
had  changed  hands  many  times.  It  had  been  found  too 
solitary  for  domestic  use;  too  cold  in  the  winter  for  the  poultry- 
keeping  attempted  by  one  tenant;  the  soil  was  too  poor  to  make 
the  place  profitable  for  the  ordinary  farmer.  So  for  some  years 
it  had  stood  empty,  till  six  months  ago  it  had  been  taken  over 
by  the  parish  authorities.  Now  it  was  used  for  housing  old 
and  mindless  paupers.  There  they  might  indulge  in  their 
feeble  antics  in  the  sunshine  without  distressing  their  fellows. 

Here  was  a  change  to  be  faced. 

Joanna  however  recovered  her  serenity  as  she  stood  awhile 
outside  and  surveyed  the  basking  village.  If  Duntarvie 


386  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

house,  she  reminded  herself,  was  become  a  place  of  sadness, 
there  was  still  the  moor,  the  burn,  the  upper  pond:  and 
what  were  the  mere  four  walls  compared  with  these  in  her 
memory?  Save  for  its  inmates  who  were  quiet  and  never 
strayed  beyond  the  lawn,  Tweedie  had  assured  her  that  the 
place  was  quite  unchanged.  After  all  perhaps  a  few  poor 
old  lunatics  were  less  hateful  as  tenants  than  would  have 
been  some  strenuous  family  who  would  rebuild  the  steadings, 
or  some  speculative  farmer  who  would  divide  the  moor  into 
hen-runs. 

She  ate  in  the  village,  also  buying  food  to  take  with  her 
so  that  she  might  be  free  for  her  next  meal.  Then  leaving 
the  main  road  by  a  rough  old  short  cut  that  was  more  like  the 
dry  bed  of  a  stream  than  a  path,  she  set  out. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  she  gained  a  track  that 
ran  thread-like,  high  up  around  the  flank  of  a  hill;  and  still 
she  was  but  half  way  to  her  destination.  But  she  would  not 
hurry.  She  was  kept  loitering,  partly  perhaps  by  some  dread 
of  what  might  await  her,  but  much  more  by  the  quiet  new 
vitality  which  seemed  to  well,  more  and  more  sweetly,  more  and 
more  surely,  in  her  with  every  step. 

How  still  it  was! — almost  sombre,  in  the  strong,  late  sun- 
shine. The  birds  did  not  sing.  The  larger  ones  only  called 
and  called  to  one  another,  while  the  smaller — brown  dunnocks, 
green  and  yellow  siskins,  finches  and  linnets  of  every  variety- 
fluttered  silently  from  bush  to  bush  or  twittered  vigilantly  in 
the  undergrowth.  The  leafage  everywhere  was  of  that  dark, 
lack-luster  green  which  is  as  different  from  the  green  firs  of 
spring,  as  from  the  flaming  red  and  yellow  of  later  autumn. 
Yet  was  that  mighty  business  of  scattering,  of  which  the  scarlet 
banners  of  October  only  mark  the  end,  already  well  on  its 
way.  Lying  with  her  eyes  shut  among  the  bushes  of  broom 
and  whin,  Joanna  heard  all  around  her  the  tiny  sharp  rever- 
berations of  pods  splitting  in  the  blessed  heat.  Opening  her 
eyes  she  saw  a  thousand  acorns  pushing  out  their  blunt  and 
glossy  noses  from  beneath  the  dark  foilage:  she  espied  a 
million  winged  fruits,  which  from  having  long  hung  aimlessly 
upon  the  parent  boughs,  now  lifted  themselves  in  swarms, 
ready  with  every  pinion  spread  for  the  wind:  she  held  in  her 
wondering  fingers  the  purple-black  riven  pods,  that  dis- 
closed each  one  a  row  of  ebony  seeds  embedded  in  silvery  silken 
down.  Fir  cones  that  were  now  no  more  than  empty  hives,  lay 


OPENTHEDOOR  387 

everywhere  around  her.  Others,  untimely  fallen,  would  never 
yield  up  their  fruits,  but  would  sink  tightly  clenched  into 
dissolution.  The  whole  earth  was  strewn  with  the  signs  and 
wonders,  the  triumphs  and  the  vast  wastage  of  the  year's 
fulfilment. 

Even  in  the  sun's  decline  it  was  hot,  and  Joanna,  finding  a 
knee-deep  pool  in  the  stream  all  overgrown  at  that  part  with 
elder  and  rowan  trees,  and  hazels  rich  with  nut  clusters, 
stripped  herself  and  bathed.  With  its  pale,  sandy  bottom 
and  moss-covered  stones,  and  its  little  brown  fall  that  gushed 
from  above,  it  made  a  lovely  bath.  Half  sitting,  half  lying 
in  it  the  young  woman  let  the  water  splash  upon  her  shoulders 
and  run  in  a  rivulet  between  her  breasts.  For  some  minutes 
she  stayed  there  watching  the  flecks  of  sunshine  move 
among  the  rippled  pebbles.  Then  feeling  fresh  to  the  heart 
she  regained  the  main  road  and  went  more  steadily  on  her 
way. 

Duntarvie  lay  two  miles  farther  on,  still  uphill,  at  the  end 
of  its  own  steep  and  rocky  road  which,  being  tree-embowered 
for  the  last  fifty  yards  or  so  had  always  been  known  to  the 
children  as  the  "  Avenue."  Emerging  from  there  to  the  open 
space  before  the  house  Joanna  stopped  and  sadly  looked.  It 
was  more  forlorn  than  she  had  expected.  Yet  she  was  com- 
forted also.  For  a  faint  wisp  of  smoke  rising  from  the  kitchen 
chimney,  and  some  hens  that  picked  about  the  scratched 
grass  behind  sagging  palings,  were  the  only  signs  of  human 
habitation.  She  had  dreaded  the  sight  of  strangers  on  the 
lawn. 

Slowly,  and  with  some  backward  looks,  she  passed  on.  She 
crossed  to  where  the  hunched-up,  red-and-gray  steading  seemed 
to  have  settled  so  deeply  into  the  earth  as  to  have  become 
one  with  it,  stooped  below  the  iron  girders  of  the  mill  shaft, 
to  which  no  horse  had  been  harnessed  these  fifty  years  and 
more,  and  skirting  the  shrunken  lower  pond  began  to  climb 
the  slope  beyond  among  the  beech  trees.  Nothing  suffers 
more  from  human  abuse  than  water.  And  when  Joanna  hadf 
seen  the  well  covered  with  broken  boards  and  nettles,  and  the 
pond  with  is  stream  half  choked  and  its  banks  a  wide  margin 
of  mud,  she  trembled  for  the  heron's  pool  which  supplied  the 
house  from  the  summit  of  the  hill  behind.  There,  however, 
she  must  go  that  night.  The  moor  could  wait  till  the  morning. 
She  would  cross  it  on  her  way  to  Auchtermuchty. 


388  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

On  her  reaching  the  place,  it  seemed  at  first  as  if  her  worst 
fears  were  to  be  realized,  and  her  heart  sank  heavily.  Here 
were  the  trees  all  standing  round  on  guard  as  she  remembered 
them.  There  was  no  touch  of  spoliation  anywhere.  But  in 
the  cup  below  her  she  could  see  only  unbroken  greenness. 
Where  was  the  water  she  had  so  loved,  the  water  that  had 
figured  all  these  years  as  a  kind  of  shrouded  symbol  in  her 
life?  Had  it  disappeared,  or  had  it  never  been? 

Then  even  as  she  looked,  a  breeze  came  running  through 
the  trees  at  her  back,  and  stirred  the  rushes,  and  the  pale 
green  evening  sky  discovered  for  her  as  if  by  a  spoken  word, 
the  living  glitter  of  waters.  There  it  was!  There  was  its 
perfect  circle  as  of  old.  There  was  the  living,  undespoilable 
spring  that  had  been  set  here  to  spill  and  spill  for  ever  from 
its  far  hidden  source  in  the  earth. 

So  after  all  one  need  not  despair!  Joanna  remembered 
}  when  her  life  had  lain  broken  within  her,  the  water  had 
sung  to  her  from  its  tank  in  the  Edinburgh  hotel  bedroom. 
And  it  was  this  now  silent,  almost  hidden  water  that  had  made 
hopeful  music  for  her  when  she  lay  a  child  in  bed  in  the  house 
below. 

"  If  I  forget  thee,  may  my  right  hand  forget  its  cunning!  " 
That  had  been  the  vague  but  fervent  exclamation  of  her 
childhood  in  this  spot.  Indeed  she  had  forgotten!  All  these 
years,  in  her  striving  for  the  world,  in  her  keeping  Louis 
Fender  as  her  center  of  energy  with  the  whole  force  of  her 
wits  and  her  strongly  disciplined  will,  she  had  been  madly 
oblivious  of  the  sweet  hint  vouchsafed  to  her  in  childhood. 
She  had  forgotten  because  she  had  never  truly  understood.  And 
so  it  was  good  to  have  forgotten.  One  had  to  forget  first. 
One  had  first  to  expend  and  lose  utterly  all  the  disastrous 
cunning  of  one's  right  hand,  before  one  could  at  last  simply  be 
as  one  was  meant  to  be.  Here  surely  was  the  new  birth.  Why 
it  should  have  to  come  by  such  a  widely  circling  and  deathly 
route,  why  so  much  pain  and  wastage  should  intervene  before 
one  could  start  fair,  was  a  vain  question.  Enough  that  for  her 
at  any  rate  there  could  have  been  no  other  way.  She  could 
'iook  back  now,  without  regret  or  sadness,  to  the  beginning  when 
her  life  had  been  as  a  seed  enfolded  in  a  double  mesh  of 
desire.  On  desire  her  life  had  fed  these  many  years,  imprisoned 
but  ripening.  A  long  agony  it  had  been,  for  she  had  never 
known  to  which  desire  she  must  be  given — to  the  desire  of  sac- 


OPEN   THE    DOOR  389 

rifice  or  to  the  desire  of  pride.  Each  had  asserted  its  sole 
claim:  each  had  denied  that  the  other  had  any  right  in  her. 
And  so  she  had  turned  from  one  to  the  other  in  a  torture  of 
ignorance  and  indecision.  Only  now  that  both  had  fallen  away 
outworn  did  she  come  by  the  steady  knowledge  that  both  had 
been  needed,  that  in  the  following  of  one  alone  there  would 
have  been  sterility.  Why  then  regret?  That  period  of  life — 
conscious  and  striving  but  blind — was  past.  She  was  free  of 
it  in  knowing  she  could  not  have  been  free  without  it.  Now  her 
absolved  self  had  its  birth. 

No  moon  rose  behind  the  low,  straight  band  of  cloud  that 
girdled  the  horizon,  but  the  sky  had  become  a  dark-belted 
cupola  of  stars.  Joanna  wandered  through  forest  clearings 
and  across  the  open  country  where  the  dew-slippery  grass 
showed  like  a  gray  web  among  the  black  bushes  of  whin  and 
heather.  She  sat  on  a  high  stone  dyke,  ate  some  biscuits  and 
raisins,  and  wondered  where  she  should  sleep.  The  idea  of 
sleep  became  suddenly  overpowering.  But  it  was  too  wet  to 
lie  in  the  open,  and  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  knock  at  the 
doors  of  Duntarvie.  Here  and  there  in  the  distance  from  her 
high  perch  she  could  see  the  tiny  lights  of  farm  houses,  but 
none  seemed  within  a  mile  of  her,  and  she  felt  too  tired  to 
go  so  far. 

She  bethought  herself  of  the  steading  below,  and  went  back 
there  quickly.  Her  desire  to  throw  herself  down  in  some  dry, 
dark  place  and  sleep,  grew  upon  her  with  every  step. 

The  barn  was  locked.  She  could  hear  the  sleepy  rustling 
and  fluffing  and  clucking  of  the  enviable  fowls  inside.  So  was 
the  old  byre  door  locked.  But  to  her  joy,  the  latch  of  what  in 
her  childhood  had  been  the  stable,  yielded  under  her  thumb. 

It  was  dark  inside,  for  there  were  only  a  few  small  panes  of 
cobwebbed  glass  among  the  tiles  of  the  roof;  but  she  groped 
about  and  soon  found  her  bearings.  Clearly  the  place  was 
used  by  the  present  owners  as  a  byre,  for  there  was  no  mistak- 
ing the  warm,  sweet  redolence  of  cows,  and  these  were  no 
horses  that  sighed  and  snuffled  in  the  two  stalls.  Joanna's 
relief  was  all  the  greater  when  she  stumbled  up  against  the 
old  stable  bin  in  its  accustomed  place,  standing  a  little  way 
out  from  the  wall  so  that  the  lid  could  be  propped  upright.  Best 
of  all,  it  was  full  to  within  a  foot  of  the  top  with  some  kind  of 
chaff  mixture.  It  was  a  great  metal  box,  long  as  a  coffin  and 
far  deeper,  and  saving  that  it  was  rather  narrow,  a  better  bed 


390  OPEN   THE   DOOR 

could  hardly  have  been  found.  Throwing  off  her  hat  and 
shoes,  and  spreading  her  short  coat  over  her  as  a  cover,  Joanna 
climbed  in.  The  chaff  yielded  comfortably  to  her  hips  and 
shoulders.  In  five  minutes  she  was  asleep. 

She  slept  fitfully  however,  being  straitened  for  room,  and 
woke  again  and  again,  to  long,  albeit  peacefully  enough,  for 
the  morning.  Her  deepest  bout  of  sleep  was  the  last,  which 
carried  her  far  past  dawn,  and  she  sat  up  half  in  fear  to  the 
long-drawn  pipe  of  a  starling  on  the  chimney  outside.  Fine 
as  the  bird's  whistle,  a  golden  rapier  of  sunlight  lay  across 
her  body  in  the  corn  bin.  She  looked  at  her  watch.  Six 
o'clock — so  late!  The  wonder  was  that  no  one  had  come 
from  the  house  yet  to  see  to  the  cows.  She  felt  ravenous. 

When  she  had  put  on  her  shoes,  shaken  her  clothes  free  of 
the  chaff  bedding,  and  gone  out  into  the  pearly  morning,  she 
could  see  no  sign  of  anyone  stirring.  Her  good  fortune  seemed 
assured  by  the  kitchen  blinds  being  still  drawn,  so  hastening 
back  to  the  byre  she  laid  hold  of  a  metal  dipper  which  had 
been  in  the  bin,  and  with  soothing  words  she  approached  one 
of  the  cows. 

To  her  relief  the  beast  looked  round  at  her,  mildly  wrinkling 
a  velvet  neck,  and  did  not  low.  Joanna's  experience  of  milk- 
ing was  limited  to  a  few  half  playful  lessons  in  childhood  in 
this  very  building,  and  she  was  unsure  of  herself.  But  she 
crouched  down  resolutely  and  grasped  the  two  near  teats. 
So,  so,  so,  so!  One  must  go  on  tugging  firmly  and  with  a 
fearless  rhythm.  That  she  knew.  She  laughed  as  two  sud- 
den, hard,  white  spirts  came  sideways  at  her  like  arrows, 
striking  warm  to  her  knees  through  her  wollen  skirts  and 
thence  dribbling  to  the  ground.  Soon  the  milk  was  coming 
bravely.  The  only  difficulty  now  was  to  direct  it  from  the 
slippery  teats  into  a  small  and  awkwardly  shaped  vessel  be- 
neath. For  once  that  the  criss-cross  darts  went  hissing  into 
the  dipper,  they  would  three-times  slither  over  the  byre  floor, 
blackening  the  cobbles,  forming  small  white  pools  upon  the 
hard  earth  between,  or  driving  skewer-like  into  the  soft  round 
heaps  of  cow-dung.  But  Joanna  persevered,  and  by  the  time 
she  was  warm  through  and  through  and  her  fingers  cramped 
with  clinging  to  the  heavy,  freckled  udder,  there  was  a  good 
cupful  for  her  breakfast.  Splendid  it  was  too — clover-fresh, 
and  sweet,  and  warm;  and  with  the  last  of  the  biscuits,  it 
stayed  immediate  hunger. 


OPENTHEDOOR  391 

The  next  minute  she  was  out  in  the  sunshine.  She  crossed 
the  stream  at  a  bound,  climbed  over  the  squeaking  wire  fence, 
and  was  straightway  on  the  old  moor.  The  morning,  for  its 
freshness,  might  have  been  the  first  of  creation.  Small  gleeful 
birds  whistled  in  the  whins  which  were  bound  each  to  each  by 
a  thousand  radiant  spiders'  webs;  and  Joanna,  as  she  broke 
through  them,  loving  what  she  must  destroy,  stooped  to  pick 
handfuls  of  bloom-gray  blaeberries.  She  could  still  hear  the 
strange,  long,  satisfied  cries  of  the  starlings  on  the  steading 
roof,  and  magpies  and  whaups  went  circling  and  calling  in 
the  further  fields.  A  lark  flew  up  voiceless  from  her  feet,  a 
weasel  darted  behind  a  boulder.  As  she  got  higher,  she  saw 
that  the  greater  part  of  the  moor  was  now  a  plantation  of 
baby  pines  and  firs  and  larches.  In  ten  years  time  it  would 
be  a  moor  no  longer,  but  a  forest.  As  yet,  however,  the  little 
sturdy  conifers — few  of  them  over  two  feet  in  height — had  not 
interfered  with  the  heather,  the  high-growing  blaeberry  plants, 
or  the  tufts  of  long,  needle-like  grass  interspersed  with  clumps 
of  wild  thyme  which  lay  between.  It  was  happiness  just  to 
pass  between  these  young  trees  that  sprang  everywhere  with 
a  such  delicate,  balanced  strength,  and  were  so  dew-covered 
and  innocent.  Already  the  moisture  was  being  sucked  up  so 
swiftly  by  the  sun  that  it  could  almost  be  felt  flying  skywards 
in  an  ecstasy.  And  when,  after  some  wandering,  Joanna  came 
to  the  corner  she  sought,  she  found  the  ground  almost  dry. 
Here  at  the  boundary  of  the  moor,  where  dark  old  woods  lay 
beyond  the  lichen-covered  paling,  the  hollow  of  grass  and 
heather  received  the  sun  as  if  in  a  chalice. 

Choosing  a  springy  tussock  of  heather  near  some  rocks  she 
sat  herself  down  in  great  contentment  to  wonder  what  she 
should  do  next.  It  was  still  too  early  to  start  for  Auchter- 
muchty.  To  Duntarvie  house  with  its  forbidding  decrepitude 
she  would  not  return.  She  began  to  trifle  with  the  idea  of 
making  Drumwharrie  farm  away  to  the  South.  Perhaps  they 
would  give  her  breakfast  there  before  she  went  on  her  way  over 
the  Fife  border.  Surely  at  Drumwharrie  there  would  still  be 
some  one  who  remembered  the  Bannermans?  To  Drumwharrie 
she  would  go. 

Presently — that  was!  .  .  .  Not  quite  yet.  .  .  .  The  sun 
was  indeed  getting  at  her  in  this  sheltered  cup.  >  It  was  getting 
most  gratefully  at  her  very  marrow:  and  now  a  drowsiness 
swam  along  her  limbs  and  drew  film  after  film  over  her 


392  OPEN   THE    DOOR 

eyelids.  She  had  slept  in  the  corn  bin,  but  not  enough  for 
her  need.  Now  her  eyelids  fell,  and  her  head  sank  toward 
one  shoulder.  Her  last  conscious  movement  before  yielding 
utterly  was  a  pushing  an  insinuating  of  herself  as  far  into 
the  bush  of  heather  as  she  could  get.  With  a  comfortable 
sigh  she  settled  yet  more  deeply.  On  all  sides  she  was  sup- 
ported by  the  springy  stems,  yet  she  was  so  far  sunken  out 
of  sight  that  the  warm,  rustling  flowers  nearly  met  over  her. 

When  she  was  awakened  by  the  abrupt  cu-uck  .  .  .  cu-uck 
of  a  cock-pheasant  quite  close  to  her  ear,  it  was  her  firm  belief 
that  she  had  slept  but  a  few  minutes.  Yet  is  was  past  ten 
by  her  watch,  and  the  sun  had  mounted  high  in  the  sky.  Had 
it  not  been  for  the  shade  of  a  larch  bough,  its  rays  must  have 
beat  her  eyes  open  long  ere  then.  As  she  rose  stretching  her- 
self, leaving  such  a  deep  impression  of  her  body  in  the  heather 
that  it  would  be  days  before  the  fine  gray  thongs  would  stand 
again  upright,  the  cock-pheasant  stalked  out  of  sight.  His 
gait  declared  that  he  was  prudent,  but  that  he  refused  to 
be  hurried.  Two  young  rabbits  nibbling  near  the  fence  were 
less  careful  for  their  dignity. 

Perching  on  a  boulder  higher  up,  Joanna  shaded  her  eyes 
and  searched  toward  the  south  for  a  sign  of  Drumwharrie. 
It  was  with  a  touch  of  incredulity  that  she  recognized,  well 
within  a  mile  from  where  she  stood,  the  dark  slate  gables 
and  the  high  old  smoke  stalk  which  in  childhood  had  seemed 
a  day's  journey  across  the  steeply  curving  hillsides.  She  was 
about  to  descend  from  her  rock,  facing  a  little  the  other  way 
to  avoid  the  sun  in  her  eyes,  when  something  made  her  gather 
herself  back  into  intent,  balanced  stillness.  Away  on  the 
moor  a  jerkily  moving  object  caught  the  sunlight.  It  was  the 
bare,  black  head  of  a  man  who  was  otherwise  hidden  by 
rising  ground  and  whins.  It  moved  along  quickly;  sometimes 
bobbing  up  and  down  as  its  owner  ran  a  few  steps  or  leaped 
over  the  knots  of  heather;  sometimes  disappearing  completely 
behind  a  hillock;  but  always  widening  the  distance  between 
itself  and  her. 

Now  it  had  gone,  and  Joanna  watched  for  its  re-appearance 
with  a  feeling  in  her  heart  different  from  anything  she  had 
ever  known  before.  Now  it  came  again  into  sight,  followed 
rapidly  by  the  shoulders  and  the  man's  whole  body,  as  he 
mounted  a  little  hill  perhaps  two  hundred  yards  away.  She 
knew  then  beyond  all  doubt  that  it  was  Lawrence  and  no 


OPEN   THE    DOOR  393 

other  that  was  here  on  the  moor  with  her.  And  it  was  only 
then  that  she  was  pierced  through  and  through  by  the  clue 
of  her  own  new-born  life.  Clear  as  the  starling's  whistle, 
piercing  as  the  first  ray  of  the  morning,  she  knew  her  happi- 
ness and  hailed  it. 

But  he  had  not  seen  her.  He  did  not  know.  He  was  not 
even  looking  for  her!  As  fast  as  he  could,  he  was  walking 
away  and  away.  Soon — in  a  moment — he  would  be  gone. 

He  must  not  go. 

Every  thought,  every  desire,  every  invigorated  cell  of  Jo- 
anna's renewed  body  leapt  on  the  instant  in  unison  with  this 
declaration  of  her  spirit.  Lawrence  must  not  go.  She  must 
stop  him.  She  had  never  known  anything  as  she  knew  this. 
She  had  never  experienced  living  knowledge  till  now.  Law- 
rence too  must  be  pierced  with  this  new,  dazzling  ray  of 
knowledge  or  there  would  remain  only  darkness. 

She  started  running  at  top  speed.  First  she  went  pelting 
down  her  hillock,  losing  all  sight  of  him;  then,  zig-zagging 
like  a  hare  along  the  clear  passage  of  grass  that  wound 
pale  yellow  between  the  whins,  and  springing  over  the  sap- 
ling pines,  she  breasted  the  longer  hill  in  front.  She  could 
see  him  again  now.  If  only  he  would  turn  round.  But  no! 
He  stared  sometimes  a  little  to  the  right  or  to  the  left,  but 
never  turned  his  face  enough  for  any  movement  from  behind 
to  catch  his  eye.  And  not  once  did  he  glance  back.  What 
breeze  there  was  on  these  heights  was  contrary,  and  so  would 
prevent  the  sound  of  her  running  from  reaching  him  till  she 
should  come  up  close.  Once  or  twice  she  thought  she  could 
hear  that  he  whistled  to  himself  as  he  walked.  He  looked 
young  and  care-free,  with  his  coat  off  and  thrown  over  one 
shoulder,  and  though  the  breath  was  failing  her,  a  spend- 
thrift laugh  escaped  her  when  she  saw  him  go  flying  over  a 
particularly  wide  obstacle  of  rock  and  heather. 

She  had  reached  the  top  of  the  second  hillock  between  them, 
he  meanwhile  climbing  also,  when  her  plight  began  to  seem 
desperate.  The  last  push  up  hill  had  made  her  breathing 
fearfully  ragged,  and  she  had  reached  the  top  just  in  time  to 
avoid  falling.  She  realized  also,  what  she  had  not  grasped 
before,  that  her  task  was  not  merely  to  cover  the  stretch  of 
uneven  ground  between  herself  and  Lawrence,  but  to  over- 
take him  as  well.  If  she  could  not  gain  seriously  on  him  by 
the  next  plunge  down  hill  and  across  the  intervening  shallow 


394  OPENTHEDOOR 

dip,  before  he  was  again  descending  at  a  helter-skelter  pace, 
she  was  done  .  .  .  she  was  lost.  She  would  have  to  sink 
mute  upon  the  earth  while  he  would  go  on  whistling  and  un- 
knowing. It  was  too  late  to  attract  his  attention  by  calling. 
Even  if  she  had  tried  to  shout  earlier,  with  the  wind  as  it 
was,  it  would  most  likely  have  been  mere  waste  of  precious 
breath.  Precious  breath  indeed!  Now  it  was  too  late  for 
the  weakest  cheep  of  a  hoi-hoil  Soon  she  would  have  no 
breath  left  for  anything,  not  even  for  survival. 

She  plunged  down  the  hill,  not  zig-zagging  now,  but  jump- 
ing and  stumbling  straight  forward,  sometimes  falling  on 
her  hands  and  knees.  The  braid  of  her  skirt  was  torn  into 
festoons  and  her  knees  trembled  shockingly.  It  was  even 
worse  going  downhill  than  up.  But  she  went  on,  and  across 
the  amber  colored  dip  which  was  full  of  quivering  air.  Only 
twice  before  in  her  life  had  she  run  so.  Once,  it  had  been  up 
the  Glasgow  hill  to  her  first  meeting  with  Louis,  under  the 
dread  that  he  would  be  gone.  And  once  it  had  been  along 
the  winding  shore  road  to  the  West  Coast  village  where  her 
mother  lay  dying.  She  remembered  these  times  now.  .  .  . 
"  Once  for  love,  once  for  death  "...  Her  blood  took  up 
the  refrain  with  its  bursting  throbs.  ..."  Once  for  love, 
once  for  death  .  .  .  this  time  for  life!  "  It  was  life  that  she 
ran  for  now.  Life  .  .  .  few  there  be  that  find  it.  Life  .  .  . 
that  for  her  Lawrence  held  in  his  keeping  .  .  .  and  was  carry- 
ing swiftly  away. 

Again  she  had  lost  sight  of  him,  and  the  knowledge  that  as 
she  was  crawling  up  this  next  slippery  hill,  he  was  going  pell- 
mell  downwards,  nearly  killed  her.  She  uttered  his  name  now 
in  gasping,  voiceless  breaths,  though  she  knew  it  was  worse 
than  useless.  But  she  could  not  refrain.  If  only  he  would 
stop  for  one  moment.  To  die  with  one  last,  short  breath 
on  his  breast  would  be  better  than  to  recover  in  solitude. 
There  was  no  real  recovery  for  her  but  on  his  breast.  If  she 
fell  short  of  him  her  heart  would  break.  It  was  breaking  now. 
She  had  to  keep  her  hand  pressed  over  it.  Why  did  he  go 
on  so  fast  and  never  stop?  A  fury  of  anger  against  him 
ran  parallel  with  her  desire.  She  loved  him,  needed  him, 
hated  him,  all  at  once. 

With  the  tears  pouring  down  her  scarlet  cheeks,  and  all 
her  features  convulsed  like  a  frantic  lost  child's,  she  got  some- 
how over  the  brow  of  the  hill  and  looked  for  him. 


OPENTHEDOOR  395 

He  had  stopped.  He  had  turned  round.  She  heard  him 
shout  .  .  .  saw  him  come  running  towards  her;  and  she 
tried  to  raise  her  arm  in  a  signal.  Though  she  was  saved, 
she  could  not  have  stopped  running  now — not  if  she  had 
known  the  next  stop  to  be  her  last.  But  soon  they  were  only 
a  few  paces  apart,  and  Lawrence,  becoming  suddenly  unsure, 
stood  still.  He  uttered  some  inarticulate  sounds  of  question 
and  welcome,  but  knew  that  he  must  wait  for  her.  There 
was  a  treacherous  looped  root  of  heather  in  the  turf  between 
them,  and  Joanna  was  no  longer  able  to  lift  her  feet,  nor  to 
look  where  she  was  going.  With  her  eyes  on  Lawrence's  face 
she  tripped  badly  on  the  root,  and  as  he  darted  forward  to 
save  her,  she  pitched  forward  right  upon  his  breast. 

For  what  to  both  seemed  a  long  time,  no  word  was  spoken. 
Joanna  clearly  was  quite  unfit  for  speech.  Her  breath  came 
and  went  in  painful,  sobbing  gasps,  do  what  she  would  to 
allay  it,  and  her  tumultous  heart-beats  shook  her  body  through 
and  through.  As  for  Lawrence,  silence  was  his  better  part. 
He  could  only  hold  his  love  to  him  in  fearful  happiness. 

But  as  soon  as  she  began  to  draw  away  from  him,  he  let 
her  go.  She  still  panted,  her  hair  was  fallen  in  a  lump  on 
one  shoulder,  her  moist  face  blazed  like  heather  flowers  in 
September  sunshine  after  a  rain  shower.  She  groped  in  her 
skirts  and  in  her  bosom. 

"  I  must  have  lost  my  handkerchief!  " 

Lawrence  pulled  out  his — a  comfortable  male  square  of 
linen — and  put  it  in  her  hand. 

"  Thank  you  ..."  she  murmured  fervently.  And  when 
her  face  was  a  little  comforted,  she  added  seriously — 

"  I  ran  after  you." 

Lawrence  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed  to  the  sky. 

"You  did  that!  "  he  replied  when  he  could  speak.  Then 
— "  See,  sit  down  here,"  he  went  on,  as  if  he  were  coaxing  some 
panicky  animal.  "  Here's  a  good  seat.  Take  your  time. 
You  must  have  run  ever  so  far  to  get  yourself  in  such  a 
state.  Why  didn't  you  shout  to  me?  " 

"  The  wind  was  against  me  ...  then  my  breath  was  gone," 
said  Joanna.  She  was  recovering,  but  still  had  to  heave 
great  sighs,  and  she  pressed  her  hands  to  her  flaming 
cheeks. 

"  Rest  a  bit,"  urged  Lawrence  as  she  tried  to  rise.  "  Could 
you  drink  some  cold  coffee?  I  have  some  here,  see  ...  " 


396 

He  knelt  beside  her,  unfastening  his  ruck-sack,  while  Joanna 
tried  to  twist  up  her  hair. 

"  All  my  hair-pins  are  gone,"  she  complained. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  can't  help  you  there." 

"  No.  I  shall  just  have  to  plait  it." 

With  practised  fingers  that  seemed  to  her  companion  to 
accomplish  a  miracle  of  skilfulness,  she  made  a  long  braid  of 
her  hair  and  doubled  it  up  under  her  soft  hat. 

"I  think  I'll  never  be  cool  again!  " 

"  Not  up  here,  certainly,"  agreed  Lawrence.  "  Shall  we 
go  down  among  these  trees?  There  should  surely  be  a  burn 
there?  " 

She  nodded.  "  There  is.  My  burn.  Let's  go."  And  she 
scrambled  to  her  feet. 

"  But  first  here's  your  coffee,"  he  said,  giving  her  a  cup, 
and  she  drank  gratefully. 

As  she  handed  him  back  the  empty  cup  their  eyes  met,  and 
it  was  as  if  each  now  saw  the  other  for  the  first  time.  Only 
now  did  Joanna  clearly  note  the  marks  of  his  recent  illness 
in  his  face;  but  it  was  no  more  this  that  kept  her  eyes  so 
long  upon  his  than  it  was  her  morning  freshness  that  made 
Lawrence  gaze  on  her  as  if  he  could  never  look  elsewhere. 
Never  before  had  their  primary  flames  of  being  leapt  up  so 
nakedly.  And  they  were  full  of  recognition,  each  for  the  other. 
There  on  the  moor  that  vibrated  with  noon-day,  he  was  Adam  to 
her  Eve.  There  among  the  broom  bushes  whereon  the  dark 
seed  pods  went  crack,  cracking  in  the  strong  sunshine,  the  past 
was  shed  from  both  of  them  like  a  garment.  Nor  did  any 
future  as  yet  exist  for  them.  They  were  "  in  the  beginning  " 
of  their  new  creation. 

<:  Did  you  see  me  on  the  rock?  "  A  question  leaped  at 
last  from  her.  "Were  you  trying  to  get  away  when  I  ran 
after  you?  " 

"  I  didn't  see  you,"  he  replied,  "  not  till  I  turned  and 
you  were  quite  close.  How  can  you  ask?  I  would  never 
run  from  you.  I  must  always  follow  you  for  ever." 

Joanna  had  never  listened  to  words  of  such  penetrating  sweet- 
ness. 

"  If  I  hadn't  caught  up  on  you,"  she  said,  "  I  should  have 
died." 

"  And  I,"  said  Lawrence,  "  should  never  have  lived." 

They  went  for  shade  down  to  the  burn,  and  there  they  sat 


OPENTHEDOOR  397 

to  talk.  They  talked  till  the  afternoon  drew  in,  but  it  seemed 
to  them  that  they  could  never  be  done  disclosing  to  each 
other  the  so  widely  differing  courses  of  their  two  lives  which 
had  yet  converged  at  last. 

Joanna  told  about  Gerald,  her  first  love,  who  close  by  where 
they  sat  had  skinned  the  wild  birds,  and  about  Alec  Ped- 
die's  offer  in  this  very  spot  (how  Lawrence  laughed  at  that ! ) 
to  show  her  what  lads  were  for.  And  she  talked  of  Mario 
and  Italy  and  Aunt  Perdy.  Of  Louis  she  found  she  could  not 
yet  speak  plainly.  The  reminiscent  misery  of  that  was  still 
too  raw.  But  when  she  told,  as  she  did,  of  the  secret  gar- 
den door  of  La  Porziuncola,  and  of  all  that  love  had  meant 
to  her  .  .  .  escape  .  .  .  adventure  .  .  .  excitement  .  .  . 
learning  .  .  .  possession  of  the  world  .  .  .  she  found  that  Law- 
rence understood.  She  knew  well  that  no  corner  of  her  life 
would  be — or  need  ever  be— kept  from  him. 

And  when  in  turn  he  told  her  of  his  life,  she  listened  amazed. 
Where  she  had  been  as  a  field  under  the  harrow,  never  left 
in  peace,  he  had  lived  folded  in  upon  himself.  She  knew  now 
what  he  (and  Carl  too)  had  meant  when  they  reckoned  him  as 
the  seed  and  her  as  the  clod  of  earth.  For  in  her  had  lain  his 
one  means  of  escape,  and  she  had  denied  him.  Elsewhere  he 
had  been  able  neither  to  give  nor  to  take  in  any  vital  way. 
His  essence  and  his  treasure  had  lain  hoarded  up  for  her  alone. 

In  an  interval  of  their  talk  she  laved  her  face  in  the  stream 
and  they  squatted  gaily  to  share  the  food  Lawrence  had  brought 
in  his  ruck-sack.  When  they  had  eaten  it  all  they  fell  silent 
at  last.  Joanna  rested,  leaning  slackly  against  a  beech  trunk. 
Her  hat  was  off  so  that  the  long  unfastened  braid  of  her  hair 
hung  fallen  behind  like  a  schoolgirl's,  and  round  her  forehead 
the  smaller  locks  clung  to  the  skin  in  damp  rings.  Except 
for  the  bright  patch  of  sunburn  where  her  linen  blouse  fell 
open  at  the  neck,  and  a  vivid  stain  on  either  forearm,  she 
now  looked  cool  as  satin. 

"  How  old  are  you?  "  asked  Lawrence  out  of  the  quietness. 

"  Thirty." 

"  I  suppose  you  are!  " 

"  Why?  "  She  answered  the  wonder  of  his  tone.  "  How 
old  do  I  look  to  you?  " 

"  No  particular  age.  But  you  look  just  such  a  lassie!  "  he 
said. 

"  Not  weary  and  worn?  " 


OPEN   THE    DOOR 


•Ae." 
.  .  .  eh?     When  I  look  like  a  juggler? 

•  Yes.    I've  seen  you  so.    And  you  looked  horribly  beau- 
tiML    Afl  the  sane,  I  like  best  for  you  to  be  as  you  are  now. 

«*w4      «E^M     ^^MUk_«^K«4  A  «%«4 

W    CVCB    UmBC-«gCQ.        -ADu 

.'  :     ".  '  "        ~- "  1          ~  "!_--"• 

My  love.   YOB  needn't  be  actions!    There  is  more  youth 
poo— HMTB  real  Tooth,  than  in  a  gki  of  seventeen. 
;  I  befieve  that  is  true.    Yet,  SOB^OW  I  know  it  here  with 

7,  all  her  face  bright.     "How 


I!    And  yes:  you  look  it.    Alas!  • 


ly  I  might 

(I  have  a  toughness  of  fiber— I  found  that 
oat  when  I  was  flL)     Bat  not  a  bit  of  freshness  would  have 

fou  do  make  me  sound  a  tough,  old  thing!  "  she  pro- 


« Not  toogh,— sturdy!  "  he  corrected  her.    ".   .   .  like 
of  those  sapling  firs  up  there  that  shoot  op  all  the  stronger 

Later  they  cfimbed  the  gray  dyke  and  went  swinging  in 

\^  A  A.lfc^— —      «M»  «vfeA      «h^MW     S+         4-l«^^rr 

DC    WoUCBg.      AS    uKy    CVHB  •EaT   II,    mey 

nooDOIDCSS  DCCV6CB  IDC  OCT JF""5C^^BCQ.  SOOCJCS 

:  Happy?  "  asked  Lawrence  breaking  a  long  unconscious 

"I  haven't  thought," 


OPEN   THE    DOOR  _-:-;- 


"  But  I  have,  though,"  said  he,  "and  I  know,  JOT  art  by 
your  voice. 

It  is  true,  Lawrence,"  she  replied.  u  I  think  my  heart 
•ever  felt  light  tffl  now." 

Together  at  Joanna's  ay  they  wheeled  to  look.    Amid  die 

------  --          ---  ,^_       —      -  - 

_j._  _  7       _  __C        -  T T--         ^  . 

_LJ-  ^    _ ' —  ~i  r  ~  —  "  n^  *— ^   "^n^c^T— .     ^*    ~  *~ci.  i  j^   z_  ~  •  z. 

r  T  ~  I     "  "      l_~_-l~_~7r      H  *  j. "  t  I     1 T  J.  *  ~     .11     1     Z  .1 .  "T 

_*  ••*-•«-* 

__      _  ^ 

"  Tike  the  seed  of  a  passion  lover,  aren't  they? 


No  need  to  ask  die  moon  if 

ce  roast 

5crC5    ±2: 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  LOS  ANGELES 

THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


URL 


REC'D  LD 


.JAN 

^^^MM.   •  •%  n  •P1^-^-' 

unjnij.w«t 
•  KQV 


301971 

ETO  f 


U 


___ 
261987 


Form  L-d 
23m -2,' 43(5205) 


31986 

198; 


fTNTVERSlTY  <*  CALlbOKWlA 

AT 

LOS  ANGELES 
•RARY 


A     000  495  293     3 


3  1158  011.17  9263 


